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HIDDEN  WATER 


I  never  saw  a  sheepman  yet  that  would  fight,  but 
you've  got  to" 


HIDDEN  WATER 


By  DANE  COOLIDGE 


WITH   FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 
BY  MAYNARD  DIXON 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1910 

Published  October  29,  1910 
Second  Edition,  December  3,  1910 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,   London,  England 


All  rights  reserved 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"I  never   saw   a   sheepman  yet  that  would  fight,  but 
you  've  got  to"     .      .     ...     .,      ..     ...     ...      .      Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"Put  up  them  guns,  you  damn  gawky  fools !     This  man 
ain't  going  to  eat  ye  I" 177 

"No !"  said  Kitty,  "You  do  not  love  me"     ....   287 
Threw  the  sand  full  in  his  face    •„     *j     w     m     w     :•-.     ••   462 


M57597 


HIDDEN   WATER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   MOUSE 


A  FTER  many  long,  brooding  days  of  sunshine^ 
when  the  clean-cut  mountains  gleamed  bril- 
liantly against  the  sky  and  the  grama  grass  curled 
slowly  on  its  stem,  the  rain  wind  rose  up  suddenly  oat 
of  Papagueria  and  swooped  down  upon  the  desolate 
town  of  Bender,  whirling  a  cloud  of  dust  before  it; 
and  the  inhabitants,  man  and  horse,  took  to  cover, 
New-born  clouds,  rushing  out  of  the  ruck  of  flying 
dirt,  cast  a  cold,  damp  shadow  upon  the  earth  and 
hurried  past;  white-crested  thunder-caps,  piling  tip 
above  the  Four  Peaks,  swept  resolutely  down  to  meet 
them;  and  the  storm  wind,  laden  with  the  smell  of 
greasewood  and  wetted  alkali,  lashed  the  gaunt  desert 
bushes  mercilessly  as  it  howled  across  the  plain* 
Striking  the  town  it  jumped  wickedly  against  the  old 
Hotel  Bender,  where  most  of  the  male  population  bad 
taken  shelter,  buffeting  its  false  front  until  the  glasses 
tinkled  and  the  bar  mirrors  swayed  dizzily  from  their 

[11] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

moorings.  Then  with  a  sudden  thunder  on  the  tin 
Toof  the  flood  came  down,  and  Black  Tex  set  up  the 
drinks. 

^  It  was  a  tall  cowman  just  down  from  the  Peaks 
twh©  ordered  the  round,  and  so  all-embracing  was 
Ms  good  humor  that  he  bid  every  one  in  the  room 
with  him,  even  a  sheepman.  Broad-faced 
huge,  with  four  months'  growth  of  hair  and  a 
thirst  of  the  same  duration,  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
bar,  smiling  radiantly,  one  sun-blackened  hand  toying 
with  the  empty  glass. 

"Come  up,  fellers,"  he  said,  waving  the  other  in  in- 
vitation, "and  drink  to  Arizona.  With  a  little  more 
rain  and  good  society  she  'd  be  a  holy  wonder,  as  the 
Texas  land  boomer  says  down  in  hell."  They  came 
up  willingly,  cowpunchers  and  sheepmen,  train 
hands,  prospectors,  and  the  saloon  bums  that  Black 
Tex  kept  about  to  blow  such  ready  spenders  as 
lie,  whenever  they  came  to  town.  With  a  practised 
jolt  of  the  bottle  Tex  passed  down  the  line,  filling 
each  heavy  tumbler  to  the  brim ;  he  poured  a  thin  one 
for  himself  and  beckoned  in  his  roustabout  to  swell  the 
count  —  but  still  there  was  an  empty  glass.  There 
was  one  man  over  in  the  corner  who  had  declined  to 
drink.  He  sat  at  a  disused  card  table  studiously 
thumbing  over  an  old  magazine,  and  as  he  raised  his 
dram  the  barkeeper  glowered  at  him  intolerantly. 

[12] 


THE    MOUSE 

"Well,"  said  the  big  cowboy,  reaching  for  his 
liquor,  "here  's  how  —  and  may  she  rain  for  a  week!" 
He  shoved  back  his  high  black  sombrero  as  he  spoke, 
but  before  he  signalled  the  toast  his  eye  caught  the 
sidelong  glance  of  Black  Tex,  and  he  too  'noticed  the 
little  man  in  the  corner. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  inquired,  leaning 
over  toward  Tex  and  jerking  his  thumb  dubiously 
at  the  corner,  and  as  the  barkeeper  scowled  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  he  set  down  his  glass  and 
stared. 

The  stranger  was  a  small  man,  for  Arizona,  and 
his  delicate  hands  were  almost  as  white  as  a  woman's ; 
but  the  lines  in  his  face  were  graven  deep,  without 
effeminacy,  and  his  slender  neck  was  muscled  like  a 
wrestler's.  In  dress  he  was  not  unlike  the  men  about 
him — Texas  boots,  a  broad  sombrero,  and  a  canvas 
coat  to  turn  the  rain, —  but  his  manner  was  that  of 
another  world,  a  sombre,  scholarly  repose  such  as 
you  would  look  for  in  the  reference  room  of  the  Bos- 
ton Public  Library;  and  he  crouched  back  in  his 
corner  like  a  shy,  retiring  mouse.  ,  For  a  moment  the 
cowman  regarded  him  intently,  as  if  seeking  for  some 
exculpating  infirmity;  then,  leaving  the  long  line  of 
drinkers  to  chafe  at  the  delay,  he  paused  to  pry  into 
the  matter. 

"Say,  partner,"  he  began,  his  big  mountain  voice 

[13] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

tamed  down  to  a  masterful  calm,  "won't  you  come 
over  and  have  something  with  us?" 

There  was  a  challenge  in  the  words  which  did  not 
escape  the  stranger;  he  glanced  up  suddenly  from 
his  reading  and  a  startled  look  came  into  his  eyes 
as  he  saw  the  long  line  of  men  watching  him.  They 
were  large  clear  eyes,  almost  piercing  in  their  intent- 
ness,  yet  strangely  innocent  and  childlike.  For  a 
moment  they  rested  upon  the  regal  form  of  the  big 
cowboy,  no  less  a  man  than  Jefferson  Creede,  fore- 
man of  the  Dos  S,  and  there  was  in  them  something 
of  that  silent  awe  and  worship  which  big  men  love 
to  see,  but  when  they  encountered  the  black  looks  of 
the  multitude  and  the  leering  smile  of  Black  Tex  they 
lit  up  suddenly  with  an  answering  glint  of  defiance. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said,  nodding  amiably  to  the 
cowman,  "I  don't  drink." 

An  incredulous  murmur  passed  along  the  line, 
mingled  with  sarcastic  mutterings,  but  the  cowman 
did  not  stir. 

"Well,  have  a  cigar,  then,"  he  suggested  patiently; 
and  the  barkeeper,  eager  to  have  it  over,  slapped 
one  down  on  the  bar  and  raised  his  glass. 

"Thank  you  just  as  much,"  returned  the  little  man 
politely,  "but  I  don't  smoke,  either.  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  to  excuse  me." 

"Have  a  glass  of  milk,  then,"  put  in  the  barkeeper, 

[14] 


THE     MOUSE 

going  off  into  a  guffaw  at  the  familiar  jest,  but  the 
cowboy  shut  him  up  with  a  look. 

"W'y,  certainly,"  he  said,  nodding  civilly  to  the 
stranger.  "Come  on,  fellers!"  And  with  a  flourish 
he  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips  as  if  tossing  off  the 
liquor  at  a  gulp.  Then  with  another  downward 
flourish  he  passed  the  whiskey  into  a  convenient  spit- 
toon and  drank  his  chaser  pensively,  meanwhile  shov- 
ing a  double  eagle  across  the  bar.  As  Black  Tex 
rang  it  up  and  counted  out  the  change  Creede  stuffed 
it  into  his  pocket,  staring  absently  out  the  window 
at  the  downpour.  Then  with  a  muttered  word  about 
his  horse  he  strode  out  into  the  storm. 

Deprived  of  their  best  spender,  the  crowd  drifted 
back  to  the  tables ;  friendly  games  of  coon-can  sprang 
up;  stud  poker  was  resumed;  and  a  crew  of  railroad 
men,  off  duty,  looked  out  at  the  sluicing  waters  and 
idly  wondered  whether  the  track  would  go  out  —  the 
usual  thing  in  Arizona.  After  the  first  delirium  of 
joy  at  seeing  it  rain  at  all  there  is  an  aftermath  of 
misgiving,  natural  enough  in  a  land  where  the  whole 
surface  of  the  earth,  mountain  and  desert,  has  been 
chopped  into  ditches  by  the  trailing  feet  of  cattle  and 
sheep,  and  most  of  the  grass  pulled  up  by  the  roots. 
In  such  a  country  every  gulch  becomes  a  watercourse 
almost  before  the  dust  is  laid,  the  arroyos  turn  to 
rivers  and  the  rivers  to  broad  floods,  drifting  with  trees 

[15] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  wreckage.  But  the  cattlemen  and  sheepmen  who 
happened  to  be  in  Bender,  either  to  take  on  hands  for 
the  spring  round-up  or  to  ship  supplies  to  their  shear- 
ing camps  out  on  the  desert,  were  not  worrying  about 
the  railroad.  Whether  the  bridges  went  out  or  held, 
the  grass  and  browse  would  shoot  up  like  beanstalks 
in  to-morrow's  magic  sunshine;  and  even  if  the  Rio 
Salagua  blocked  their  passage,  or  the  shearers'  tents 
were  beaten  into  the  mud,  there  would  still  be  feed, 
and  feed  was  everything. 

But  while  the  rain  was  worth  a  thousand  dollars 
a  minute  to  the  country  at  large,  trade  languished  in 
the  Hotel  Bender.  In  a  land  where  a  gentleman 
cannot  take  a  drink  without  urging  every  one  within 
the  sound  of  his  voice  to  join  in,  the  saloon  business, 
while  running  on  an  assured  basis,  is  sure  to  have  its 
dull  and  idle  moments.  Having  rung  up  the  two 
dollars  and  a  half  which  Jefferson  Creede  paid  for  his 
last  drink  —  the  same  being  equivalent  to  one  day's 
wages  as  foreman  of  the  Dos  S  outfit  —  Black  Tex, 
as  Mr.  Brady  of  the  Bender  bar  preferred  to  be 
called,  doused  the  glasses  into  a  tub,  turned  them 
over  to  his  roustabout,  and  polished  the  cherrywood 
moodily.  Then  he  drew  his  eyebrows  down  and 
scowled  at  the  little  man  in  the  corner. 

In  his  professional  career  he  had  encountered  a 
great  many  men  who  did  not  drink,  but  most  of  them 

[16] 


THE    MOUSE 

smoked,  and  the  others  would  at  least  take  a  cigar 
home  to  their  friends.  But  here  was  a  man  who 
refused  to  come  in  on  a  treat  at  all,  and  a  poor,  miser- 
able excuse  for  a  man  he  was,  too,  without  a  word 
for  any  one.  Mr.  Brady's  reflections  OR  the  perver- 
sity of  tenderf  eet  were  cut  short  by  a  cold  blast  of  air. 
The  door  swung  open,  letting  in  a  smell  of  wet  grease- 
wood,  and  an  old  man,  his  hat  dripping,  stumbled  in 
and  stood  swaying  against  the  bar.  His  aged  som- 
brero, blacksmithed  along  the  ridge  with  copper  rivets, 
was  set  far  back  on  a  head  of  long  gray  hair  which 
hung  in  heavy  strings  down  his  back,  like  an  In- 
dian's; his  beard,  equally  long  and  tangled,  spread 
out  like  a  chest  protector  across  his  greasy  shirt,  and 
his  fiery  eyes  roved  furtively  about  the  room  as  he 
motioned  for  a  drink.  Black  Tex  set  out  the  bottle 
negligently  and  stood  waiting. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  inquired  pointedly,  as  the  old  man 
slopped  out  a  drink. 

"Well,  have  one  yourself,"  returned  the  old-timer 
grudgingly.  Then,  realizing  his  breach  of  etiquette, 
he  suddenly  straightened  up  and  included  the  entire 
barroom  in  a  comprehensive  sweep  of  the  hand. 

"Come  up  hyar,  all  of  yoush,"  he  said  drunkenly. 

"Hev  a  drink  —  everybody  —  no,  everybody  —  come 

up  hyar,   I  say!"     And  the  graceless  saloon  burns 

dropped  their  cards  and  came  trooping  up  together. 

2  [17] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

A  few  of  the  more  self-respecting  men  slipped  quietly 
out  into  the  card  rooms;  but  the  studious  stranger, 
disdaining  such  puny  subterfuges,  remained  in  his 
place,  as  impassive  and  detached  as  ever. 

"Hey,  young  man,"  exclaimed  the  old-timer  jaunt- 
ily, "step  up  hyar  and  nominate  yer  pizen!" 

He  closed  his  invitation  with  an  imperative  ges- 
ture, but  the  young  man  did  not  obey. 

"No,  thank  you,  Uncle,"  he  replied  soberly,  "I  don't 
drink." 

"Well,  hev  a  cigar,  then,"  returned  the  old  man, 
finishing  out  the  formula  of  Western  hospitality,  and 
once  more  Black  Tex  glowered  down  upon  this 
guest  who  was  always  "knocking  a  shingle  off  his 
sign." 

"Aw,  cut  it  out,  Bill,"  he  sneered,  "that  young  fel- 
ler don't  drink  ner  smoke,  neither  one  —  and  he 
would  n't  have  no  truck  with  you,  nohow!" 

They  drank,  and  the  stranger  dropped  back  into 
his  reading  unperturbed.  Once  more  Black  Tex 
scrubbed  the  bar  and  scowled  at  him;  then,  tapping 
peremptorily  on  the  board  with  a  whiskey  glass,  he 
gave  way  to  his  just  resentment. 

"Hey,  young  feller,"  he  said,  jerking  his  hand 
arbitrarily,  "come  over  here.  Come  over  here,  I  said 
— I  want  to  talk  with  you!" 

For  a  moment  the  man  in  the  corner  looked  up  in 

[18] 


THE    MOUSE 

well-bred  surprise;  then  without  attempting  to  argue 
the  point  he  arose  and  made  his  way  to  the  bar. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway?"  demanded 
Brady  roughly.  "Are  you  too  good  to  drink  with 
the  likes  of  us?" 

The  stranger  lowered  his  eyes  before  the  domineer- 
ing gaze  of  his  inquisitor  and  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"I  don't  drink  with  anybody,"  he  said  at  last. 
"And  if  you  had  any  other  waiting-room  in  your 
hotel,"  he  added,  "I  'd  keep  away  from  your  bar- 
room altogether.  As  it  is,  maybe  you  would  n't  mind 
leaving  me  alone." 

At  this  retort,  reflecting  as  it  did  upon  the  manage- 
ment, Black  Tex  began  to  breathe  heavily  and  sway 
upon  his  feet. 

"I  asked  you,"  he  roared,  thumping  his  fist  upon 
the  bar  and  opening  up  his  eyes,  "whether  you  are 
too  good  to  drink  with  the  likes  of  us  —  me,  f  r  in- 
stance —  and  I  want  to  git  an  answer!" 

He  leaned  far  out  over  the  bar  as  if  listening  for 
the  first  word  before  he  hit  him,  but  the  stranger  did 
not  reply  immediately.  Instead,  with  simple-minded 
directness  he  seemed  to  be  studying  on  the  matter. 
The  broad  grin  of  the  card  players  fell  to  a  won- 
dering stare  and  every  man  leaned  forward  when, 
raising  his  sombre  eyes  from  the  floor,  the  little  man 
spoke. 

[19] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  think  I  am." 

"Yes,  what?"  yelled  the  barkeeper,  astounded. 
"You  think  you  're  what?" 

"Now,  say,"  protested  the  younger  man.  Then, 
apparently  recognizing  the  uselessness  of  any  further 
evasion,  he  met  the  issue  squarely. 

"Well,  since  you  crowd  me  to  it,"  he  cried,  flaring 
up,  "I  am  too  good!  I  'm  too  good  a  man  to  drink 
when  I  don't  want  to  drink  —  I  'm  too  good  to  accept 
treats  when  I  don't  stand  treat!  And  more  than 
that,"  he  added  slowly  and  impressively,  "I  'm  too 
good  to  help  blow  that  old  man,  or  any  other  man, 
for  his  money !" 

He  rose  to  his  utmost  height  as  he  spoke,  turning 
to  meet  the  glance  of  every  man  in  the  room,  and 
as  he  faced  them,  panting,  his  deep  eyes  glowed  with 
a  passion  of  conviction. 

"If  that  is  too  good  for  this  town,"  he  said,  "I  '11 
get  out  of  it,  but  I  won't  drink  on  treats  to  please 
anybody." 

The  gaze  of  the  entire  assembly  followed  him  curi- 
ously as  he  went  back  to  his  corner,  and  Black  Tex 
was  so  taken  aback  by  this  unexpected  effrontery  on 
the  part  of  his  guest  that  he  made  no  reply  what- 
ever. Then,  perceiving  that  his  business  methods 
had  been  questioned,  he  drew  himself  up  and  frowned 
darkly. 

[20] 


THE    MOUSE 

"Hoity-toity!"  he  sniffed  with  exaggerated  concern., 
"Who  th'  hell  is  this,  now?  One  of  them  little  white- 
ribbon  boys,  fresh  from  the  East,  I  bet  ye,  travellin* 
for  the  W.  P.  S.  Q.  T.  H'm-m  —  tech  me  not  —  oh 
deah!"  He  hiked  up  his  shoulders,  twisted  his  head 
to  a  pose,  and  shrilled  his  final  sarcasms  in  the  tones 
of  a  finicky  old  lady;  but  the  stranger  stuck  resolutely 
to  his  reading,  whereupon  the  black  barkeeper  went 
sullen  and  took  a  drink  by  himself. 

Like  many  a  good  mixer,  Mr.  Brady  of  the  Hotel 
Bender  was  often  too  good  a  patron  of  his  own  bar,, 
and  at  such  times  he  developed  a  mean  streak,  with 
symptoms  of  homicidal  mania,  which  so  far  had  kept 
the  town  marshal  guessing.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, and  with  the  rumor  of  a  killing  at  Fort 
Worth  to  his  credit,  Black  Tex  was  accustomed  to 
being  humored  in  his  moods,  and  it  went  hard  with 
him  to  be  called  down  in  the  middle  of  a  spectacular 
play,  and  by  a  rank  stranger,  at  that.  The  chair- 
warmers  of  the  Hotel  Bender  bar  therefore  discreetly 
ignored  the  unexpected  rebuke  of  their  chief  and  pro- 
ceeded noisily  with  their  games,  but  the  old  man  who 
had  paid  for  the  drinks  was  no  such  time-server.  Af- 
ter tucking  what  was  left  of  his  money  back  into  his 
worn  overalls  he  balanced  against  the  bar  railing  for 
a  while  and  then  steered  straight  for  the  dark  corner. 

"Young  feller,"  he  said,  leaning  heavily  upon  the 


HIDDEN    WATER 

table  where  the  stranger  was  reading,  "I  'm  old  Bill 
Johnson,  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket,  and  I  wan'er  shake 
hands  with  you !" 

The  young  man  looked  up  quickly  and  the  card 
players  stopped  as  suddenly  in  their  play,  for  Old 
Man  Johnson  was  a  fighter  in  his  cups.  But  at  last 
the  stranger  showed  signs  of  friendliness.  As  the 
old  man  finished  speaking  he  rose  with  the  decorum 
of  the  drawing-room  and  extended  his  white  hand 
cordially. 

"I  'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Johnson,"  he 
,said.  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"No,"  protested  the  old  man,  "I  do'  wanner  sit 
down — I  wanner  ask  you  a  question."  He  reeled, 
and  balanced  himself  against  a  chair.  "I  wanner 
ask  you,"  he  continued,  with  drunken  gravity,  "on 
the  squar',  now,  did  you  ever  drink?" 

"Why,  yes,  Uncle,"  replied  the  younger  man,  smil- 
ing at  the  question,  "I  used  to  take  a  friendly  glass, 
once  in  a  while  —  but  I  don't  drink  now."  He  added 
the  last  with  a  finality  not  to  be  mistaken,  but  Mr. 
.Johnson  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  was  not  there  to  urge 
him  on. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested.  "You  're  mistaken,  Mister 
—  er  —  Mister  - 

"Hardy,"  put  in  the  little  man. 

"Ah  yes — Hardy,  eh?    And  a  dam'  good  name, 

[22] 


THE     MOUSE 

too.  I  served  under  a  captain  by  that  name  at  old 
Fort  Grant,  thirty  years  ago.  Waal,  Hardy,  I  like 
y'r  face  —  you  look  honest  —  but  I  wanner  ask 
you  'nuther  question  —  why  don't  you  drink  now, 
then?" 

Hardy  laughed  indulgently,  and  his  eyes  lighted 
up  with  good  humor,  as  if  entertaining  drunken  men 
was  his  ordinary  diversion. 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  Mr.  Johnson,"  he  said.  "If  I 
should  drink  whiskey  the  way  you  folks  down  here  do, 
I  'd  get  drunk." 

"W'y  sure,"  admitted  Old  Man  Johnson,  sinking 
shamelessly  into  a  chair.  "I  'm  drunk  now.  But 
what 's  the  difference?" 

Noting  the  black  glances  of  the  barkeeper,  Hardy 
sat  down  beside  him  and  pitched  the  conversation 
in  a  lower  key. 

"It  may  be  all  right  for  you,  Mr.  Johnson,"  he  con- 
tinued confidentially,  "and  of  course  that 's  none  of 
my  business;  but  if  I  should  get  drunk  in  this  town, 
I  'd  either  get  into  a  fight  and  get  licked,  or  I  'd  wake 
up  the  next  morning  broke,  and  nothing  to  show  for 
it  but  a  sore  head." 

"That 's  me!"  exclaimed  Old  Man  Johnson,  slam- 
ming his  battered  hat  on  the  table,  "that 's  me,  Boy, 
down  to  the  ground !  I  came  down  hyar  to  buy  grub 
f 'r  my  ranch  up  in  Hell's  Hip  Pocket,  but  look  at 

[23] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

me  now,  drunk  as  a  sheep -herder,  and  only  six  dollars 
to  my  name."  He  shook  his  shaggy  head  and  fell 
to  muttering  gloomily,  while  Hardy  reverted  peace- 
fully to  his  magazine. 

After  a  long  pause  the  old  man  raised  his  face  from 
his  arms  and  regarded  the  young  man  searchingly. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "you  never  told  me  why  you  refused 
to  drink  with  me  a  while  ago." 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  answered  Hardy,  honestly, 
"and  I  'm  sure  you  '11  understand  how  it  is  with  me. 
I  never  expect  to  take  another  drink  as  long  as  I  live 
in  this  country  —  not  unless  I  get  snake-bit.  One 
drink  of  this  Arizona  whiskey  will  make  me  foolish, 
and  two  will  make  me  drunk,  I  'm  that  light-headed. 
Now,  if  I  had  taken  a  drink  with  you  a  minute  ago 
I  'd  he  considered  a  cheap  sport  if  I  did  n't  treat  back, 
wouldn't  I?  And  then  I  'd  be  drunk.  Yes,  that 's 
a  fact.  So  I  have  to  cut  it  out  altogether.  I  like  you 
just  as  well,  you  understand,  and  all  these  other  gen- 
tlemen, but  I  just  naturally  can't  do  it." 

"Oh,  hell,"  protested  the  old  man,  "that 's  all  right. 
Don't  apologize,  Boy,  whatever  you  do.  D'  yer  know 
what  I  came  over  hyar  fer?"  he  asked  suddenly  reach- 
ing out  a  crabbed  hand.  "Well,  I  '11  tell  ye.  I  've 
be'n  lookin'  f 'r  years  f 'r  a  white  man  that  I  c'd  swear 
off  to.  Not  one  of  these  pink-gilled  preachers  but 
a  man  that  would  shake  hands  with  me  on  the  squar' 


THE    MOUSE 

and  hold  me  to  it.  Now,  Boy,  I  like  you  —  will  you 
shake  hands  on  that?" 

"Sure,"  responded  the  young  man  soberly.  "But 
I  tell  you,  Uncle,"  he  added  deprecatingly,  "I  just 
came  into  town  to-day  and  I  'm  likely  to  go  out  again 
to-morrow.  Don't  you  think  you  could  kind  of  look 
after  yourself  while  I  'm  gone?  I  Ve  seen  a  lot  of 
this  swearing-off  business  already,  and  it  don't  seem 
to  amount  to  much  anyhow  unless  the  fellow  that 
swears  off  is  willing  to  do  all  the  hard  work  himself." 

There  was  still  a  suggestion  of  banter  in  his  words, 
but  the  old  man  was  too  serious  to  notice  it. 

"Never  mind,  boy,"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  can  do  all 
the  work,  but  I  jist  had  to  have  an  honest  man  to 
swear  off  to." 

He  rose  heavily  to  his  feet,  adjusted  his  copper- 
riveted  hat  laboriously,  and  drifted  slowly  out  the 
door.  And  with  another  spender  gone  the  Hotel 
Bender  lapsed  into  a  sleepy  quietude.  The  rain  ham- 
mered fitfully  on  the  roof;  the  card  players  droned 
out  their  bids  and  bets ;  and  Black  Tex,  mechanically 
polishing  his  bar,  alternated  successive  jolts  of  whiskey 
with  ill-favored  glances  into  the  retired  corner  where 
Mr.  Hardy,  supposedly  of  the  W.  P.  S.  Q.  T.,  was 
studiously  perusing  a  straw-colored  Eastern  maga- 
zine. Then,  as  if  to  lighten  the  gloom,  the  sun  flashed 
out  suddenly,  and  before  the  shadow  of  the  scudding 

[25] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

clouds  had  dimmed  its  glory  a  shrill  whistle  from 
down  the  track  announced  the  belated  approach  of 
the  west-bound  train.  Immediately  the  chairs  began 
to  scrape;  the  stud-poker  players  cut  for  the  stakes 
and  quit;  coon-can  was  called  off,  and  by  the  time 
Number  Nine  slowed  down  for  the  station  the  entire 
floating  population  of  Bender  was  lined  up  to  see 
her  come  in. 

Rising  head  and  shoulders  above  the  crowd  and 
well  in  front  stood  Jefferson  Creede,  the  foreman 
of  the  Dos  S;  and  as  a  portly  gentleman  in  an  un- 
seasonable linen  duster  dropped  off  the  Pullman  he 
advanced,  waving  his  hand  largely. 

"Hullo,  Judge!"  he  exclaimed,  grinning  jovially. 
"I  was  afraid  you  'd  bogged  down  into  a  washout 
somewhere!" 

"Not  at  all,  Jeff,  not  at  all,"  responded  the  old 
gentleman,  shaking  hands  warmly.  "Say,  this  is 
great,  is  n't  it?"  He  turned  his  genial  smile  upon  the 
clouds  and  the  flooded  streets  for  a  moment  and  then 
hurried  over  toward  the  hotel. 

"Well,  how  are  things  going  up  on  the  range?" 
he  inquired,  plunging  headlong  into  business  and 
talking  without  a  stop.  "Nicely,  nicely,  I  don't 
doubt.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Creede,  that  ranch  has 
marvellous  possibilities — marvellous!  All  it  needs  is 
a  little  patience,  a  little  diplomacy,  you  understand 

[26] 


THE    MOUSE 

— and  holding  on,  until  we  can  pass  this  forestry  leg- 
islation. Yes,  sir,  while  the  present  situation  may 
seem  a  little  strained — and  I  don't  doubt  you  are  hav- 
ing a  hard  time — at  the  same  time,  if  we  can  only 
get  along  with  these  sheepmen — appeal  to  their  bet- 
ter nature,  you  understand — until  we  get  some  pro- 
tection at  law,  I  am  convinced  that  we  can  succeed 
yet.  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  on  this 
subject,  Jeff — man  to  man,  you  understand,  and  be- 
tween friends — but  I  hope  you  will  reconsider  your 
resolution  to  resign,  because  that  would  just  about 
finish  us  off.  It  is  n't  a  matter  of  money,  is  it,  Jeffer- 
son? For  while,  of  course,  we  are  not  making  a  for- 
tune—" 

He  paused  and  glanced  up  at  his  foreman's  facey 
which  was  growing  more  sullen  every  minute  with 
restrained  impatience. 

"Well,  speak  out,  Jeff,"  he  said  resignedly. 
"What  is  it?" 

"You  know  dam'  well  what  it  is,"  burst  out  the  tall 
cowboy  petulantly.  "It 's  them  sheepmen.  And  I 
want  to  tell  you  right  now  that  no  money  can  hire 
me  to  run  that  ranch  another  year,  not  if  I  've  got  ta 
smile  and  be  nice  to  those  sons  of — well,  you  know 
what  kind  of  sons  I  mean — that  dog-faced  Jasper 
Swope,  for  instance." 

He  spat  vehemently  at  the  mention  of  the  name 

[271 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  led  the  way  to  a  card  room  in  the  rear  of  the 
barroom. 

"Of  course  1 '11  work  your  cattle  for  you,"  he 
conceded,  as  he  entered  the  booth,  "but  if  you  want 
them  sheepmen  handled  diplomatically  you  'd  better 
send  up  a  diplomat.  I  'm  that  wore  out  I  can't  talk 
to  'em  except  over  the  top  of  a  six-shooter." 

The  deprecating  protestations  of  the  judge  were 
drowned  by  the  scuffle  of  feet  as  the  hangers-on  and 
guests  of  the  hotel  tramped  in,  and  in  the  round 
of  drinks  that  followed  his  presence  was  half  for- 
gotten. Not  being  a  drinking  man  himself,  and  there- 
fore not  given  to  the  generous  practice  of  treating, 
the  arrival  of  Judge  Ware,  lately  retired  from  the 
bench  and  now  absentee  owner  of  the  Dos  S  Ranch, 
did  not  create  much  of  a  furore  in  Bender,  All  Black 
Tex  and  the  bunch  knew  was  that  he  was  holding 
a  conference  with  Jefferson  Creede,  and  that  if  Jeff 
was  pleased  with  the  outcome  of  the  interview  he 
^would  treat,  but  if  not  he  would  probably  retire  to  the 
corral  and  watch  his  horse  eat  hay,  openly  declaring 
that  Bender  was  the  most  God-forsaken  hell-hole 
north  of  the  Mexican  line — for  Creede  was  a  man  of 
moods. 

In  the  lull  which  followed  the  first  treat,  the  in- 
gratiating drummer  who  had  set  up  the  drinks,  charg- 

[28] 


THE     MOUSE 

ing  the  same  to  his  expense  account,  leaned  against 
the  bar  and  attempted  to  engage  the  barkeeper  in 
conversation,  asking  leading  questions  about  business 
in  general  and  Mr.  Einstein  of  the  New  York  Store 
in  particular;  but  Black  Tex,  in  spite  of  his  position, 
was  uncommunicative.  Immediately  after  the  arrival 
of  the  train  the  little  man  who  had  called  him  down 
had  returned  to  the  barroom  and  immersed  himself  in 
those  wearisome  magazines  which  a  lunger  had  left 
about  the  place,  and,  far  from  being  impressed  with  his 
sinister  expression,  had  ignored  his  unfriendly  glances 
entirely.  More  than  that,  he  had  deserted  his  dark 
corner  and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  by  the  window 
from  which  he  now  looked  out  upon  the  storm  with  a 
brooding  preoccupation  as  sincere  as  it  was  madden- 
ing. His  large  deer  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  dis- 
tance, and  his  manner  was  that  of  a  man  who  studies 
deeply  upon  some  abstruse  problem;  of  a  man  with  a 
past,  perhaps,  such  as  often  came  to  those  parts, 
crossed  in  love,  or  hiding  out  from  his  folks. 

Black  Tex  dismissed  the  drummer  with  an  impa- 
tient gesture  and  was  pondering  solemnly  upon  his 
grievances  when  a  big,  square- jowled  cat  rushed  out 
from  behind  the  bar  and  set  up  a  hoarse,  raucous 
mewing. 

"Ah,  shet  up!"  growled  Brady,  throwing  him  away 

[29] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

with  his  foot;  but  as  the  cat's  demands  became  more 
and  more  insistent  the  barkeeper  was  at  last  con- 
strained to  take  some  notice. 

"What's  bitin'  you?"  he  demanded,  peering  into 
the  semi-darkness  behind  the  bar;  and  as  the  cat,  thus 
encouraged,  plunged  recklessly  in  among  a  lot  of 
empty  bottles,  he  promptly  threw  him  out  and  fished 
up  a  mouse  trap,  from  the  cage  of  which  a  slender 
tail  was  wriggling  frantically. 

"Aha!"  he  exclaimed,  advancing  triumphantly  into 
the  middle  of  the  floor.  "Look,  boys,  here  's  where 
we  have  some  fun  with  Tom!"  And  as  the  card 
players  turned  down  their  hands  to  watch  the  sport, 
the  old  cat,  scenting  his  prey,  rose  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  clutched  at  the  cage,  yelling. 

Grabbing  him  roughly  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
Black  Tex  suddenly  threw  him  away  and  opened  the 
trap,  but  the  frightened  mouse,  unaware  of  his  op- 
portunity, remained  huddled  up  in  the  corner. 

"Come  out  of  that,"  grunted  the  barkeeper,  shak- 
ing the  cage  while  with  his  free  hand  he  grappled  the 
cat,  and  before  he  could  let  go  his  hold  the  mouse 
was  halfway  across  the  room,  heading  for  the  bench 
where  Hardy  sat. 

"Ketch  'im!"  roared  Brady,  hurling  the  eager  cat 
after  it,  and  just  as  the  mouse  was  darting  down 
a  hole  Tom  pinned  it  to  the  floor  with  his  claws. 

[so] 


THE     MOUSE 

"What  'd  I  tell  ye?"  cried  the  barkeeper,  swagger- 
ing. "That  cat  will  ketch  'em  every  time.  Look  at 
that  now,  will  you?" 

With  dainty  paws  arched  playfully,  the  cat  pitched 
the  mouse  into  the  air  and  sprang  upon  it  like  light- 
ning as  it  darted  away.  Then  mumbling  it  with  a 
nicely  calculated  bite,  he  bore  it  to  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and  laid  it  down,  uninjured. 

"Ain't  he  hell,  though?"  inquired  Tex,  rolling  his 
eyes  upon  the  spectators.  The  cat  reached  out  cau- 
tiously and  stirred  it  up  with  his  paw;  and  once  more, 
as  his  victim  dashed  for  its  hole,  he  caught  it  in  full 
flight.  But  now  the  little  mouse,  its  hair  all  wet  and 
rumpled,  crouched  dumbly  between  the  feet  of  its  cap- 
tor and  would  not  run.  Again  and  again  the  cat 
stirred  it  up,  sniffing  suspiciously  to  make  sure  it  was 
not  dead ;  then  in  a  last  effort  to  tempt  it  he  deliber- 
ately lay  over  on  his  back  and  rolled,  purring  and 
closing  his  eyes  luxuriously,  until,  despite  its  hurts> 
the  mouse  once  more  took  to  flight.  Apparently  un- 
heeding, the  cat  lay  inert,  following  its  wobbly  course 
with  half -shut  eyes — then,  lithe  as  a  panther,  he  leaped 
up  and  took  after  it.  There  was  a  rush  and  a  scram- 
ble against  the  wall,  but  just  as  he  struck  out  his 
barbed  claw  a  hand  closed  over  the  mouse  and  the  little 
man  on  the  bench  whisked  it  dexterously  away. 

Instantly  the  black  cat  leaped  into  the  air,  clamor- 

[31] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ing  for  his  prey,  and  with  a  roar  like  a  mountain  bull 
Black  Tex  rushed  out  to  intercede. 

"Put  down  that  mouse,  you  freak!"  he  bellowed, 
charging  across  the  room.  "Put  'im  down,  I  say,  or 
I  '11  break  you  in  two!"  He  launched  his  heavy  fist 
as  he  spoke,  but  the  little  man  ducked  it  neatly  and, 
stepping  behind  a  table,  stood  at  bay,  still  holding 
the  mouse. 

"Put  'im  down,  I  tell  you!"  shouted  the  barkeeper, 
panting  with  vexation.  "What — you  won't,  eh? 
Well,  I  '11  learn  you!"  And  with  a  wicked  oath  he 
drew  his  revolver  and  levelled  it  across  the  table. 

"Put — down — that — mouse!"  he  said  slowly  and 
distinctly,  but  Hardy  only  shook  his  head.  Every 
man  in  the  room  held  his  breath  for  the  report;  the 
poker  players  behind  fell  over  tables  and  chairs  to 
get  out  of  range;  and  still  they  stood  there,  the  bar- 
keeper purple,  the  little  man  very  pale,  glaring  at 
one  another  along  the  top  of  the  barrel.  In  the  hollow 
of  his  hand  Hardy  held  the  mouse,  which  tottered 
drunkenly ;  while  the  cat,  still  clamoring  for  his  prize, 
raced  about  under  the  table,  bewildered. 

"Hurry  up,  now,"  said  the  barkeeper  warningly, 
"I  '11  give  you  five.  One — come  on,  now — two — " 

At  the  first  count  the  old  defiance  leaped  back  into 
Hardy's  eyes  and  he  held  the  mouse  to  his  bosom  as 
a  mother  might  shield  her  child;  at  the  second  he 

[32] 


THE    MOUSE 

glanced  down  at  it,  a  poor  crushed  thing  trembling 
as  with  an  ague  from  its  wounds ;  then,  smoothing  it 
gently  with  his  hand,  he  pinched  its  life  out  suddenly 
and  dropped  it  on  the  floor. 

Instantly  the  cat  pounced  upon  it,  nosing  the  body 
eagerly,  and  Black  Tex  burst  into  a  storm  of  oaths. 

"Well,  dam'  your  heart,"  he  yelled,  raising  his 
pistol  in  the  air  as  if  about  to  throw  the  muzzle  against 
his  breast  and  fire.  "What — in — hell — do  you 
mean?" 

Baffled  and  evaded  in  every  play  the  evil-eyed  bar- 
keeper suddenly  sensed  a  conspiracy  to  show  him  up, 
and  instantly  the  realization  of  his  humiliation  made 
him  dangerous. 

"Perhaps  you  figure  on  makin'  a  monkey  out  of 
me!"  he  suggested,  hissing  snakelike  through  his 
teeth;  but  Hardy  made  no  answer  whatever. 

"Well,  say  something,  can't  you?"  snapped  the  bad- 
man,  his  overwrought  nerves  jangled  by  the  delay. 
"What  d  'ye  mean  by  interferin'  with  my  cat?" 

For  a  minute  the  stranger  regarded  him  intently, 
his  sad,  far-seeing  eyes  absolutely  devoid  of  evil  in- 
tent, yet  baffling  in  their  inscrutable  reserve — then 
he  closed  his  lips  again  resolutely,  as  if  denying  ex- 
pression to  some  secret  that  lay  close  to  his  heart, 
turning  it  with  undue  vehemence  to  the  cause  of  those 
who  suffer  and  cannot  escape. 

3  [33] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Well,  f  r  Gawd's  sake,"  exclaimed  Black  Tex  at 
last,  lowering  his  gun  in  a  pet,  "don't  I  git  no  satis- 
faction— what 's  your  i-dee?" 

"There  's  too  much  of  this  cat-and-mouse  business 
going  on,"  answered  the  little  man  quietly,  "and  I 
don't  like  it." 

"Oh,  you  don't,  eh?"  echoed  the  barkeeper  sarcas- 
tically; "well,  excuse  me!  I  didn't  know  that." 
And  with  a  bow  of  exaggerated  politeness  he  retired 
to  his  place. 

"The  drinks  are  on  the  house,"  he  announced,  jaunt- 
ily strewing  the  glasses  along  the  bar.  "Won't 
drink,  eh?  All  right.  But  lemme  tell  you,  pard- 
ner,"  he  added,  wagging  his  head  impressively, 
"you  're  goin'  to  git  hurt  some  day." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   MAN   FROM    CliERRYCOW 

A  FTER  lashing  the  desert  to  a  frazzle  and  finding 
the  leaks  in  the  Hotel  Bender,  the  wind  from 
Papagueria  went  howling  out  over  the  mesa,  still  big 
with  rain  for  the  Four  Peaks  country,  and  the  sun 
came  out  gloriously  from  behind  the  clouds.  Al- 
ready the  thirsty  sands  had  sucked  up  the  muddy 
pools  of  water,  and  the  board  walk  which  extended  the 
length  of  the  street,  connecting  saloon  with  saloon 
and  ending  with  the  New  York  Store,  smoked  with 
the  steam  of  drying.  Along  the  edge  of  the  walk, 
drying  out  their  boots  in  the  sun,  the  casual  residents 
of  the  town — many  of  them  held  up  there  by  the 
storm — sat  in  pairs  and  groups,  talking  or  smoking 
in  friendly  silence.  A  little  apart  from  the  rest,  for 
such  as  he  are  a  long  time  making  friends  in  Arizona, 
Rufus  Hardy  sat  leaning  against  a  post,  gazing 
gloomily  out  across  the  desert.  For  a  quiet,  retiring 
young  man,  interested  in  good  literature  and  bearing 
malice  toward  no  one,  his  day  in  the  Bender  barroom 
had  been  eventful  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  deserts 
and  wishes,  and  he  was  deep  in  somber  meditation 

[35] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

when  the  door  opened  and  Judge  Ware  stepped  out 
into  the  sunshine. 

In  outward  appearance  the  judge  looked  more  like 
a  large  fresh-faced  boy  in  glasses  than  one  of  San 
Francisco's  eminent  jurists,  and  the  similarity  was 
enhanced  by  the  troubled  and  deprecating  glances 
with  which  he  regarded  his  foreman,  who  towered 
above  him  like  a  mentor.  There  was  a  momentary' 
conference  between  them  at  the  doorway,  and  then, 
as  Creede  stumped  away  down  the  board  walk,  the 
judge  turned  and  reluctantly  approached  Hardy. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  began,  as  the  young 
man  in  some  confusion  rose  to  meet  him,  "but  I 
should  like  a  few  words  with  you,  on  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness. I  am  Mr.  Ware,  the  owner  of  the  Dos  S  Ranch 
— perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of  it — over  in  the 
Four  Peaks  country.  Well — I  hardly  know  how  to 
begin — but  my  foreman,  Mr.  Creede,  was  highly  im- 
pressed with  your  conduct  a  short  time  ago  in  the 
— er — affray  with  the  barkeeper.  I — er — really 
know  very  little  as  to  the  rights  of  the  matter,  but 
you  showed  a  high  degree  of  moral  courage,  I  'm 
sure.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  your  business 
is  in  these  parts,  Mr. — er— 

"Hardy,"  supplied  the  young  man  quietly,  "Rufus 
Hardy.  I  am — " 

[36] 


THE    MAN    FROM    CHERRYCOW 

"Er — what?"  exclaimed  the  judge,  hastily  focussing 
his  glasses.  "Hardy — Hardy — where  have  I  heard 
that  name  before?" 

"I  suppose  from  your  daughter.  Miss  Lucy,"  re- 
plied the  young  man,  smiling  at  his  confusion.  "Un- 
less," he  added  hastily,  "she  has  forgotten  about  me." 

"Why,  Rufus  Hardy!"  exclaimed  the  judge,  reach- 
ing out  his  hand.  "Why,  bless  my  heart — to  be  sure. 
Why,  where  have  you  been  for  this  last  year  and 
more?  I  am  sure  your  father  has  been  quite  worried 
about  you." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  answered  Hardy,  shifting  his 
gaze.  "I  guess  he  knows  I  can  take  care  of  myself 
by  this  time — if  I  do  write  poetry,"  he  added,  with  a 
shade  of  bitterness. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  judge,  diplomatically  chang- 
ing the  subject,  "Lucy  will  be  glad  to  hear  of  you,  at 
any  rate.  I  believe  she — er — wrote  you  once,  some 
time  ago,  at  your  Berkeley  address,  and  the  letter  was 
returned  as  uncalled  for." 

He  gazed  over  the  rims  of  his  glasses  inquiringly, 
and  with  a  suggestion  of  asperity,  but  the  young  man 
was  unabashed. 

"I  hope  you  will  tell  Miss  Lucy,"  he  said  deferen- 
tially, "that  on  account  of  my  unsettled  life  I  have  not 
ordered  my  mail  forwarded  for  some  time."  He 

[37] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

paused  and  for  the  moment  seemed  to  be  considering 
some  further  explanation;  then  his  manner  changed 
abruptly. 

"I  believe  you  mentioned  a  matter  of  business,"  he 
remarked  bluffly,  and  the  judge  came  back  to  earth 
with  a  start.  His  mind  had  wandered  back  a  year  or 
more  to  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  this  same 
self-contained  young  man  from  his  father's  house,  not 
three  blocks  from  his  own  comfortable  home.  There 
Lad  been  a  servant's  rumor  that  he  had  sent  back  a  let- 
ter or  two  postmarked  "Bowie,  Arizona" — but  old 
Colonel  Hardy  had  said  never  a  word. 

"Er — yes,"  he  assented  absently,  "but — well,  I  de- 
clare," he  exclaimed  helplessly,  "I  Ve  quite  forgotten 
what  it  was  about." 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  then?"  suggested  Hardy,  in- 
dicating the  edge  of  the  board  walk  with  a  courtly 
sweep  of  the  hand.  "This  rain  will  make  good  feed 
for  you  up  around  the  Four  Peaks — I  believe  it  was 
of  your  ranch  there  that  you  wished  to  speak." 

Judge  Ware  settled  down  against  a  convenient 
post  and  caught  his  breath,  meanwhile  regarding  his 
companion  curiously. 

"Yes,  that 's  it,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  to  talk  with 
you  about  my  ranch,  but  I  swear  I  '11  have  to  wait 
till  Creede  comes  back,  now." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Hardy  easily;  "we  can  talk 

[38] 


THE    MAN    FROM    CHERRYCOW 

about  home,  then.  How  is  Miss  Lucy  succeeding 
with  her  art — is  she  still  working  at  the  Institute?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  exclaimed  the  judge,  quite  molli- 
fied by  the  inquiry.  "Indeed  she  is,  and  doing  as 
well  as  any  of  them.  She  had  a  landscape  hung  at 
the  last  exhibit,  that  was  very  highly  praised,  even 
by  Mathers,  and  you  know  how  hard  he  is  to  please. 
Tupper  Browne  won  the  prize,  but  I  think  Lucy's 
was  twice  the  picture — kind  of  soft  and  sunshiny,  you 
know — it  made  you  think  of  home,  just  to  look  at  it." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Hardy,  looking 
up  the  ragged  street  a  little  wistfully.  "I  kind  of 
lose  track  of  things  down  here,  knocking  around  from 
place  to  place."  He  seated  himself  wearily  on  the 
edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  drummed  with  his  sinewy 
white  hands  against  a  boot  leg.  "But  it 's  a  great 
life,  sure,"  he  observed,  half  to  himself.  "And  by 
the  way,  Mr.  Ware,"  he  continued,  "if  it 's  all  the 
same  to  you  I  wish  you  would  n't  say  anything  to 
your  foreman  about  my  past  life.  Not  that  there  is 
anything  disgraceful  about  it,  but  there  isn't  mucK 
demand  for  college  graduates  in  this  country,  you 
know,  and  I  might  want  to  strike  him  for  a  job." 

Judge  Ware  nodded,  a  little  distantly;  he  did  not 
approve  of  this  careless  young  man  in  all  his  moods. 
For  a  man  of  good  family  he  was  hardly  presentable, 
for  one  thing,  and  he  spoke  at  times  like  an  ordinary 

'  [39] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

working  man.  So  he  awaited  the  lumbering  ap- 
proach of  his  foreman  in  sulky  silence,  resolved  to 
leave  the  matter  entirely  in  his  hands. 

Jefferson  Creede  bore  down  upon  them  slowly, 
sizing  up  the  situation  as  he  came,  or  trying  to,  for 
everything  seemed  to  be  at  a  standstill. 

"Well?"  he  remarked,  looking  inquiringly  from  the 
judge  to  Hardy.  "How  about  it?" 

There  was  something  big  and  dominating  about 
him  as  he  loomed  above  them,  and  the  judge's  school- 
boy state  of  mind  instantly  returned. 

"I — I  really  have  n't  done  anything  about  the  mat- 
ter, Jefferson,"  he  stammered  apologetically.  "Per- 
haps you  will  explain  our  circumstances  to  Mr.  Hardy 
here,  so  that  we  can  discuss  the  matter  intelligently." 
He  looked  away  as  he  spoke,  and  the  tall  foreman 
grunted  audibly. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "they  ain't  much  to  explain. 
The  sheepmen  have  been  gittin'  so  free  up  on  our 
range  that  I  've  had  a  little  trouble  with  'em — and  if 
I  was  the  boss  they  'd  be  more  trouble,  you  can  bet 
your  life  on  that.  But  the  judge  here  seems  to  think 
we  can  kinder  suck  the  hind  teat  and  baby  things 
along  until  they  git  that  Forest  Reserve  act  through, 
and  make  our  winnin'  later.  He  wants  to  make 
friends  with  these  sheepmen  and  git  'em  to  kinder  go 
around  a  little  and  give  us  half  a  chanst.  Well, 

[40] 


THE    MAN    FROM    CHERRYCOW] 

maybe  it  can  be  done — but  not  by  me.  So  I  told 
him  either  to  get  a  superintendent  to  handle  the  sheep 
end  of  it  or  rustle  up  a  new  foreman,  because  I  see 
red  every  time  I  hear  a  sheep-blat. 

"Then  come  the  question,"  continued  the  cowman, 
throwing  out  his  broad  hand  as  if  indicating  the 
kernel  of  the  matter,  "of  gittin'  such  a  man,  and  while 
we  was  talkin'  it  over  you  called  old  Tex  down  so  good 
and  proper  that  there  was  n't  any  doubt  in  my  mind 
— providin'  you  want  the  job,  of  course." 

He  paused  and  fixed  his  compelling  eyes  upon 
Hardy  with  such  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  good 
humor  that  the  young  man  was  won  over  at  once, 
although  he  made  no  outward  sign.  It  was  Judge 
Ware  who  was  to  pass  upon  the  matter  finally,  and  he 
waited  deferentially  for  him  to  speak. 

"Well — er — Jefferson,"  began  the  judge  a  little 
weakly,  "do  you  think  that  Mr.  Hardy  possesses  the 
other  qualities  which  would  be  called  for  in  such  a 
man?" 

"W'y,  sure,"  responded  Creede,  waving  the  matter 
aside  impatiently.  "Go  ahead  and  hire  him  before 
he  changes  his  mind." 

"Very  well  then,  Mr.  Hardy,"  said  the  judge  re- 
signedly, "the  first  requisite  in  such  a  man  is  that  he 
shall  please  Mr.  Creede.  And  since  he  commends 
you  so  warmly  I  hope  that  you  will  accept  the  posi- 

01] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

tion.  Let  me  see — um — would  seventy-five  dollars 
a  month  seem  a  reasonable  figure?  Well,  call  it 
seventy-five,  then — that 's  what  I  pay  Mr.  Creede,  and 
I  want  you  to  be  upon  an  equality  in  such  matters. 

"Now  as  to  your  duties.  Jefferson  will  have 
charge  of  the  cattle,  as  usual;  and  I  want  you,  Mr. 
Hardy,  to  devote  your  time  and  attention  to  this  mat- 
ter of  the  sheep.  Our  ranch  house  at  Hidden  Water 
lies  almost  directly  across  the  river  from  one  of  the 
principal  sheep  crossings,  and  a  little  hospitality 
shown  to  the  shepherds  in  passing  might  be  like  bread 
cast  upon  the  waters  which  comes  back  an  hundred 
fold  after  many  days.  We  cannot  hope  to  get  rid  of 
them  entirely,  but  if  the  sheep  owners  would  kindly 
respect  our  rights  to  the  upper  range,  which  Mr. 
Creede  will  point  out  to  you,  I  am  sure  we  should 
take  it  very  kindly.  Now  that  is  your  whole  problem, 
Rufus,  and  I  leave  the  details  entirely  in  your  hands. 
But  whatever  you  do,  be  friendly  and  see  if  you 
can't  appeal  to  their  better  nature." 

He  delivered  these  last  instructions  seriously  and 
they  were  so  taken  by  Hardy,  but  Creede  laughed 
silently,  showing  all  his  white  teeth,  yet  without  at- 
tracting the  unfavorable  attention  of  the  judge,  who 
was  a  little  purblind.  Then  there  was  a  brief  dis- 
cussion of  details,  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Einstein 
of  the  New  York  Store,  where  Hardy  was  given 

MJ 


THE    MAN    FROM    CHERRYCOW 

carte  blanche  for  supplies,  and  Judge  Ware 
swung  up  on  the  west-bound  limited  and  went  flying 
away  toward  home,  leaving  his  neighbor's  son — now 
his  own  superintendent  and  sheep  expert — standing 
composedly  upon  the  platform. 

"Well,"  remarked  Creede,  smiling  genially  as  he 
turned  back  to  the  hotel,  "the  Old  Man  's  all  right,  eh, 
if  he  does  have  fits !  He  's  good-hearted — and  that 
goes  a  long  ways  in  this  country — but  actually,  I  be- 
lieve he  knows  less  about  the  cattle  business  than  any 
man  in  'Arizona.  He  can't  tell  a  steer  from  a  stag- 
honest!  And  I  can  lose  him  a  half-mile  from  camp 
any  day." 

The  tall  cattleman  clumped  along  in  silence  for  a 
while,  smiling  over  some  untold  weakness  of  his  boss 
—then  he  looked  down  upon  Hardy  and  chuckled  to 
himself. 

"I  'm  glad  you  're  going  to  be  along  this  trip,"  he 
said  confidentially.  "Of  course  I  'm  lonely  as  a  lost 
dog  out  there,  but  that  ain't  it;  the  fact  is,  I  need 
somebody  to  watch  me.  W'y,  boy,  I  could  beat  the 
old  judge  out  of  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  cattle 
and  he  'd  never  know  it  in  a  lifetime.  Did  ye  ever  live 
all  alone  out  on  a  ranch  for  a  month  or  so?  Well, 
you  know  how  lawless  and  pisen-mean  a  man  can  git, 
then,  associatin'  with  himself.  I  'd  Ve  had  the  old 
man  robbed  forty  times  over  if  he  was  n't  such  a  good- 

[43] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

hearted  old  boy,  but  between  fightin'  sheepmen  and 
keepin'  tab  on  a  passel  of  brand  experts  up  on  the 
Tonto  I  'm  gittin'  so  ornery  I  don't  dare  trust  myself. 
Have  a  smoke  ?  Oh,  I  forgot — " 

He  laughed  awkwardly  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"Got  a  match?"  he  demanded  austerely.  "Um, 
much  obliged — be  kinder  handy  to  have  you  along 
now."  He  knit  his  brows  fiercely  as  he  fired  up,  re- 
garding Hardy  with  a  furtive  grin. 

"Say,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I've  got  to  make  friends 
with  you  some  way.  You  eat,  don't  you?  All  right 
then,  you  come  along  with  me  over  to  the  Chink's. 
I  'm  going  to  treat  you  to  something  if  it 's  only  ham 
V  eggs." 

They  dined  largely  at  Charley's  and  then  drifted 
out  to  the  feed  corral.  Creede  threw  down  some  hay 
to  a  ponderous  iron-scarred  roan,  more  like  a  war  horse 
than  a  cow  pony,  and  when  he  came  back  he  found 
Hardy  doing  as  much  for  a  clean-limbed  sorrel,  over 
by  the  gate. 

"Yourn?"  he  inquired,  surveying  it  with  the  keen 
concentrated  gaze  which  stamps  every  point  on  a  cow- 
boy's memory  for  life. 

"Sure,"  returned  Hardy,  patting  his  pony  care- 
fully upon  the  shoulder. 

"Kinder  high-headed,  ain't  he?"  ventured  Creede, 
as  the  sorrel  rolled  his  eyes  and  snorted. 

[44] 


THE    MAN    FROM    CHERRYCOW 

"That 's  right,"  assented  Hardy,  "he  's  only  been 
broke  about  a  month.  I  got  him  over  in  the  Sulphur 
Springs  Valley." 

"I  knowed  it,"  said  the  cowboy  sagely,  "one  of  them 
wire-grass  horses — an'  I  bet  he  can  travel,  too.  Did 
you  ride  him  all  the  way  here?" 

"Clean  from  the  Chiricahuas,"  replied  the  young 
man,  and  Jefferson  Creede  looked  up,  startled. 

"What  did  you  say  you  was  doin'  over  there?"  he 
inquired  slowly,  and  Hardy  smiled  quietly  as  he  an- 
swered : 

"Riding  for  the  Cherry  cow  outfit." 

"The  hell  you  say!"  exclaimed  Creede  explosively, 
and  for  a  long  time  he  stood  silent,  smoking  as  if  in 
deep  meditation. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  might  as  well  say  it — I 
took  you  for  a  tenderfoot." 


[45] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   SHEEP 

HPHE  morning  dawned  as  clear  on  Bender  as  if 
there  had  never  been  storm  nor  clouds,  and  the 
waxy  green  heads  of  the  greasewood,  dotting  the  level 
plain  with  the  regularity  of  a  vineyard,  sparkled  with 
a  thousand  dewdrops.  Ecstatic  meadow  larks,  un- 
dismayed by  the  utter  lack  of  meadows,  sang  love 
songs  from  the  tops  of  the  telegraph  poles;  and  the 
little  Mexican  ground  doves  that  always  go  in  pairs 
tracked  amiably  about  together  in  the  wet  litter  of 
the  corral,  picking  up  the  grain  which  the  storm  had 
laid  bare.  Before  the  early  sun  had  cleared  the  top  of 
the  eastern  mountains  Jefferson  Creede  and  Hardy 
had  risen  and  fed  their  horses  well,  and  while  the  air 
was  yet  chill  they  loaded  their  blankets  and  supplies 
upon  the  ranch  wagon,  driven  by  a  shivering  Mexican, 
and  went  out  to  saddle  up. 

Since  his  confession  of  the  evening  before  Creede 
had  put  aside  his  air  of  friendly  patronage  and,  lack- 
ing another  pose,  had  taken  to  smoking  in  silence; 
for  there  is  many  a  boastful  cowboy  in  Arizona  who 
has  done  his  riding  for  the  Cherrycow  outfit  on  the 

[46] 


THE     TRAIL    OF    THE     SHEEP 

chuck  wagon,  swamping  for  the  cook.  At  breakfast 
he  jollied  the  Chinaman  into  giving  him  two  orders 
of  everything,  from  coffee  to  hot  cakes,  paid  for  the 
same  at  the  end,  and  rose  up  like  a  giant  refreshed— 
but  beneath  this  jovial  exterior  he  masked  a  divided 
mind.  Although  he  had  come  down  handsomely,  he 
still  had  his  reservations  about  the  white-handed  little 
man  from  Cherrycow,  and  when  they  entered  the  cor- 
ral he  saddled  his  iron-scarred  charger  by  feeling,  gaz- 
ing craftily  over  his  back  to  see  how  Hardy  would 
show  up  in  action. 

Now,  first  the  little  man  took  a  rope,  and  shaking 
out  the  loop  dropped  it  carelessly  against  his  horse's 
fore-feet — and  that  looked  well,  for  the  sorrel  stood 
stiffly  in  his  tracks,  as  if  he  had  been  anchored.  Then 
the  man  from  Cherrycow  picked  up  his  bridle, 
rubbed  something  on  the  bit,  and  offered  it  to  the 
horse,  who  graciously  bowed  his  head  to  receive  it. 
This  was  a  new  one  on  Creede  and  in  the  excitement  of 
the  moment  he  inadvertently  cinched  his  roan  up  two 
holes  too  tight  and  got  nipped  for  it,  for  old  Bat 
Wings  had  a  mind  of  his  own  in  such  matters,  and  the 
cold  air  made  him  ugly. 

"Here,  quit  that,"  muttered  the  cowboy,  striking 
back  at  him;  but  when  he  looked  up,  the  sorrel  had  al- 
ready taken  his  bit,  and  while  he  was  champing  on  it 
Hardy  had  slipped  the  headstall  over  his  ears. 


HIDDEN    WATER 

There  was  a  broad  leather  blind  on  the  hacamore, 
which  was  of  the  best  plaited  rawhide  with  a  horsehair 
tie  rope,  but  the  little  man  did  not  take  advantage  of 
it  to  subdue  his  mount.  Instead  he  reached  down 
for  his  gaudy  Navajo  saddle  blanket,  offered  it  to  the 
sorrel  to  smell,  and  then  slid  it  gently  upon  his  back. 
But  when  he  stooped  for  his  saddle  the  high-headed 
horse  rebelled.  With  ears  pricked  suspiciously  for- 
ward and  eyes  protruding  he  glared  at  the  clattering 
thing  in  horror,  snorting  deep  at  every  breath.  But, 
though  he  was  free-footed,  by  some  obsession  of  the 
mind,  cunningly  inculcated  in  his  breaking,  the  sorrel 
pony  was  afraid  to  move. 

As  the  saddle  was  drawn  toward  him  and  he  saw 
that  he  could  not  escape  its  hateful  embrace  he  leaned 
slowly  back  upon  his  haunches,  grunting  as  if  his  fore- 
feet, wreathed  in  the  loose  rope,  were  stuck  in  some 
terrible  quicksands  from  which  he  tried  in  vain  to 
extricate  them;  but  with  a  low  murmur  of  indiffer- 
ent words  his  master  moved  the  saddle  resolutely 
toward  him,  the  stirrups  carefully  snapped  up  over 
the  horn,  and  ignoring  his  loud  snorts  and  frenzied 
shakings  of  the  head  laid  it  surely  down  upon  his  back. 
This  done,  he  suddenly  spoke  sharply  to  him,  and 
with  a  final  groan  the  beautiful  creature  rose  up  and 
consented  to  his  fate. 

Hardy  worked  quickly  now,  tightening  the  cinch, 

[48] 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     SHEEP 

lowering  the  stirrups,  and  gathering  up  the  reins.  He 
picked  up  the  rope,  coiled  it  deftly  and  tied  it  to  the 
saddle — and  now,  relieved  of  the  idea  that  he  was 
noosed,  the  pony  began  to  lift  his  feet  and  prance, 
softly,  like  a  swift  runner  on  the  mark.  At  these 
signs  of  an  early  break  Creede  mounted  hurriedly 
and  edged  in,  to  be  ready  in  case  the  sorrel,  like  most 
half -broken  broncos,  tried  to  scrape  his  rider  off 
against  the  fence;  but  Hardy  needed  no  wrangler 
to  shunt  him  out  the  gate.  Standing  by  his  shoulder 
and  facing  the  rear  he  patted  the  sorrel's  neck  with 
the  hand  that  held  the  reins,  while  with  his  right  hand 
he  twisted  the  heavy  stirrup  toward  him  stealthily, 
raising  his  boot  to  meet  it.  Then  like  a  flash  he 
clapped  in  his  foot  and,  catching  the  horn  as  his  fiery 
pony  shot  forward,  he  snapped  up  into  the  saddle  like 
a  jumping  jack  and  went  flying  out  the  gate. 

"Well,  the  son  of  a  gun!"  muttered  Creede,  as  he 
thundered  down  the  trail  after  him.  "Durned  if  he 
can't  ride!" 

There  are  men  in  every  cow  camp  who  can  rope  and 
shoot,  but  the  man  who  can  ride  a  wild  horse  can  hold 
up  his  head  with  the  best  of  them.  No  matter  what 
his  race  or  station  if  he  will  crawl  a  "snake"  and  stay 
with  him  there  is  always  room  on  the  wagon  for  his 
blankets ;  his  fame  will  spread  quickly  from  camp  to 
camp,  and  the  boss  will  offer  to  raise  him  when  he 
*  [49] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

shows  up  for  his  time.  Jefferson  Creede's  face  was 
all  aglow  when  he  finally  rode  up  beside  Hardy;  he 
grinned  triumphantly  upon  horse  and  man  as  if  they 
had  won  money  for  him  in  a  race ;  and  Hardy,  roused 
at  last  from  his  reserve,  laughed  back  out  of  pure  joy 
in  his  possessions. 

"How  's  that  for  a  horse?"  he  cried,  raising  his  voice 
above  the  thud  of  hoofs.  "I  have  to  turn  him  loose 
at  first — 'fraid  he  '11  learn  to  pitch  if  I  hold  him  in— 
he  's  never  bucked  with  me  yet !" 

"You  bet — he  's  a  snake !"  yelled  Creede,  hammer- 
ing along  on  his  broad-chested  roan.  "Where  'd  you 
git  'im?" 

"Tom  Fulton's  ranch,"  responded  Hardy,  reining 
his  horse  in  and  patting  him  on  the  neck.  "Turned  in 
three  months'  pay  and  broke  him  myself,  to  boot. 
I  '11  let  you  try  him  some  day,  when  he  's  gentled." 

"Well,  if  I  was  n't  so  big  'n'  heavy  I  'd  take  you  up 
on  that,"  said  Creede,  "but  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged, 
all  the  same.  I  don't  claim  to  be  no  bronco-buster 
now,  but  I  used  to  ride  some  myself  when  I  was  a  kid. 
But  say,  the  old  judge  has  got  some  good  horses  run- 
nin'  on  the  upper  range, — if  you  want  to  keep  your 
hand  in, — thirty  or  forty  head  of  'em,  and  wild  as 
hawks.  There  's  some  sure-enough  wild  horses  too, 
over  on  the  Peaks,  that  belong  to  any  man  that  can 
git  his  rope  onto  'em — how  would  that  strike  you? 

[50] 


THE     TRAIL    OF     THE     SHEER 

We  Ye  been  tryin'  for  years  to  catch  the  black  stallion 
that  leads  'em. 

Try  as  he  would  to  minimize  this  exaggerated  esti- 
mate of  his  prowess  as  a  horse-tamer  Hardy  was  un- 
able to  make  his  partner  admit  that  he  was  anything 
short  of  a  real  "buster,"  and  before  they  had  been  on 
the  trail  an  hour  Creede  had  made  all  the  plans  for  a 
big  gather  of  wild  horses  after  the  round-up. 

"I  had  you  spotted  for  a  sport  from  the  start,"  he 
said,  puffing  out  his  chest  at  the  memory  of  his 
acumen,  "but,  by  jingo,  I  never  thought  I  was  drawin' 
a  bronco-twister.  Well,  now,  I  saw  you  crawl  that 
horse  this  mornin',  and  I  guess  I  know  the  real  thing 
by  this  time.  Say,"  he  said,  turning  confidentially  in 
his  saddle,  "if  it 's  none  of  my  business  you  can  say  so, 
but  what  did  you  do  to  that  bit?" 

Hardy  smiled,  like  a  juggler  detected  in  his  trick. 
"You  must  have  been  watching  me,"  he  said,  "but  I 
don't  mind  telling  you — it 's  simply  passing  a  good 
thing  along.  I  learned  it  off  of  a  Yaqui  Mayo  In- 
dian that  had  been  riding  for  Bill  Greene  on  the 
Turkey-track — I  rubbed  it  with  a  little  salt." 

"Well,  I  'm  a  son  of  a  gun!"  exclaimed  Creede  in- 
credulously. "Here  we  Ve  been  gittin'  our  fingers  bit 
off  for  forty  years  and  never  thought  of  a  little  thing 
like  that.  Got  any  more  tricks?" 

"Nope,"  said  Hardy,  "I  Ve  only  been  in  the  Ter- 

[51] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ritory  a  little  over  a  year,  this  trip,  and  I  'm  learn- 
ing, myself.  Funny  how  much  you  can  pick  up 
from  some  of  these  Indians  and  Mexicans  that  can't 
write  their  own  names,  is  n't  it  ?' 

"Umm,  may  be  so,"  assented  Creede  doubtfully, 
"but  I  'd  rather  go  to  a  white  man  myself.  Say,"  he 
exclaimed,  changing  the  subject  abruptly,  "what  was 
that  name  the  old  man  called  you  by  when  he  was 
makin'  that  talk  about  sheep — Roofer,  or  Rough 
House — or  something  like  that?" 

"Oh,  that's  my  front  name— Rufus.  Why? 
What 's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"Nothin',  I  reckon,"  replied  Creede  absently, 
"never  happened  to  hear  it  before,  's  all.  I  was  won- 
derin'  how  he  knowed  it,"  he  added,  glancing  shrewdly 
sideways.  "Thought  maybe  you  might  have  met  him 
up  in  California,  or  somewheres." 

"Oh,  that 's  easy,"  responded  Hardy  unblinkingly. 
"The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  ask  me  my  full  name. 
I  notice  he  calls  you  Jefferson,"  he  added,  shiftily 
changing  the  subject. 

"Sure  thing,"  agreed  Creede,  now  quite  satisfied, 
"he  calls  everybody  that  way.  If  your  name  is  Jim 
you  're  James,  John  you  're  Jonathan,  Jeff  you  're 
Jefferson  Davis — but  say,  ain't  they  any  f'r  short  to 
your  name?  We  're  gittin'  too  far  out  of  town  for 

[52] 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     SHEEP 

this  Mister  business.     My  name  's  Jeff,  you  know," 
he  suggested. 

"Why,  sure,"  exclaimed  Hardy,  brushing  aside 
any  college-bred  scruples,  "only  don't  call  me 
Rough  House — they  might  get  the  idea  that  I  was 
on  the  fight.  But  you  don't  need  to  get  scared  of 
Rufus — it 's  just  another  way  of  saying  Red.  I  had 
a  red-headed  ancestor  away  back  there  somewhere 
and  they  called  him  Rufus,  and  then  they  passed  the 
name  down  in  the  family  until  it  got  to  me,  and  I  'm 
no  more  red-headed  than  you  are." 

"No — is  that  straight?"  ejaculated  the  cowboy, 
with  enthusiasm,  "same  as  we  call  'em  Reddy  now, 
eh  ?  But  say,  I  'd  choke  if  I  tried  to  call  you  Rufus. 
Will  you  stand  for  Reddy?  Aw,  that 's  no  good— 
what 's  the  matter  with  Rufe?  Well,  shake  then, 
pardner,  I  'm  dam'  glad  I  met  up  with  you." 

They  pulled  their  horses  down  to  a  Spanish  trot — 
that  easy,  limping  shuffle  that  eats  up  its  forty  miles 
a  day — and  rode  on  together  like  brothers,  heading 
for  a  distant  pass  in  the  mountains  where  the  painted 
cliffs  of  the  Bulldog  break  away  and  leave  a  gap  down 
to  the  river.  To  the  east  rose  Superstition  Mountain, 
that  huge  buttress  upon  which,  since  the  day  that  a  war 
party  of  Pimas  disappeared  within  the  shadow  of  its 
pinnacles,  hot  upon  the  trail  of  the  Apaches,  and  never 

[53] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

returned  again,  the  Indians  of  the  valley  have  always 
looked  with  superstitious  dread. 

Creede  told  the  story  carelessly,  smiling  at  the  pride 
of  the  Pimas  who  refused  to  admit  that  the  Apaches 
alone,  devils  and  bad  medicine  barred,  could  have 
conquered  so  many  of  their  warriors.  To  the  west 
in  a  long  fringe  of  green  loomed  the  cottonwoods  of 
Moroni,  where  the  hard-working  Mormons  had 
turned  the  Salagua  from  its  course  and  irrigated  the 
fertile  plain,  and  there  on  their  barren  reservation 
dwelt  the  remnant  of  those  warlike  Pimas,  the  unre- 
quited friends  of  the  white  men,  now  held  by  them  as 
of  no  account. 

As  he  heard  the  history  of  its  people — how  the 
Apaches  had  wiped  out  the  Toltecs,  and  the  white 
men  had  killed  off  the  Apaches,  and  then,  after  push- 
ing aside  the  Pimas  and  the  Mexicans,  closed  in  a 
death  struggle  for  the  mastery  of  the  range — Hardy 
began  to  perceive  the  grim  humor  of  the  land.  He 
glanced  across  at  his  companion,  tall,  stalwart,  with 
mighty  arms  and  legs  and  features  rugged  as  a  moun- 
tain crag,  and  his  heart  leaped  up  within  him  at  the 
thought  of  the  battles  to  come,  battles  in  which  sheep- 
men and  cattlemen,  defiant  of  the  law,  would  match 
their  strength  and  cunning  in  a  fight  for  the  open 
range. 

As  they  rode  along  mile  after  mile  toward  the  north 

[54] 


THE     TRAIL    OF     THE     SHEEP 

the  road  mounted  gently;  hills  rose  up  one  by  one 
out  of  the  desert  floor,  crowned  with  towering 
sahuaros,  and  in  the  dip  of  the  pass  ahead  a  mighty 
forest  of  their  misshapen  stalks  was  thrust  up  like 
giant  fingers  against  the  horizon.  The  trail  wound 
in  among  them,  where  they  rose  like  fluted  columns 
above  the  lesser  cactus — great  skin-covered  tanks, 
gorged  fat  with  water  too  bitter  to  quench  the  fieriest 
thirst,  yet  guarded  jealously  by  poison-barbed  spines. 
Gilded  woodpeckers,  with  hearts  red  as  blood  painted 
upon  their  breasts,  dipped  in  uneven  flight  from 
sahuaro  to  sahuaro,  dodged  into  holes  of  their  own 
making,  dug  deep  into  the  solid  flesh;  sparrow  hawks 
sailed  forth  from  their  summits,  with  quick  eyes 
turned  to  the  earth  for  lizards ;  and  the  brown  mocking 
bird,  leaping  for  joy  from  the  ironwood  tree  where  his 
mate  was  nesting,  whistled  the  praise  of  the  desert  in 
the  ecstatic  notes  of  love.  In  all  that  land  which  some 
say  God  forgot,  there  was  naught  but  life  and  happi- 
ness, for  God  had  sent  the  rain. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when,  as  they 
neared  the  summit  of  the  broad  pass,  a  sudden  taint 
came  down  the  wind,  whose  only  burden  had  been  the 
fragrance  of  resinous  plants,  of  wetted  earth,  and 
of  green  things  growing.  A  distant  clamor,  like  the 
babble  of  many  voices  or  the  surf -beats  of  a  mighty 
sea,  echoed  dimly  between  the  chuck-a-chuck  of  their 

[55] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

horses'  feet,  and  as  Hardy  glanced  up  inquiringly  his 
companion's  lip  curled  and  he  muttered : 

"Sheep!" 

They  rode  on  in  silence.  The  ground,  which  before 
had  been  furred  with  Indian  wheat  and  sprouting  six 
weeks'  grass,  now  showed  the  imprints  of  many  tiny 
feet  glozed  over  by  the  rain,  and  Hardy  noticed 
vaguely  that  something  was  missing — the  grass  was 
gone.  Even  where  a  minute  before  it  had  covered 
the  level  flats  in  a  promise  of  maturity,  rising  up  in 
ranker  growth  beneath  the  thorny  trees  and  cactus,  its 
place  was  now  swept  bare  and  all  the  earth  trampled 
into  narrow,  hard-tamped  trail.  Then  as  a  brush 
shed  and  corrals,  with  a  cook  tent  and  a  couple  of 
water  wagons  in  the  rear,  came  into  view,  the  ground 
went  suddenly  stone  bare,  stripped  naked  and 
trampled  smooth  as  a  floor.  Never  before  had  Hardy 
seen  the  earth  so  laid  waste  and  desolate,  the  very 
cactus  trimmed  down  to  its  woody  stump  and  every 
spear  of  root  grass  searched  out  from  the  shelter  of 
the  spiny  chollas.  He  glanced  once  more  at  his  com- 
panion, whose  face  was  sullen  and  unresponsive ;  there 
was  a  well-defined  bristle  to  his  short  mustache  and  he 
rowelled  his  horse  cruelly  when  he  shied  at  the  blatting 
horde. 

The  shearing  was  in  full  blast,  every  man  work- 
ing with  such  feverish  industry  that  not  one  of  them 

[56] 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     SHEEP 

stopped  to  look  up.  From  the  receiving  corral  three 
Mexicans  in  slouched  hats  and  jumpers  drove  the 
sheep  into  a  broad  chute,  yelling  and  hurling  battered 
oil  cans  at  the  hindmost;  by  the  chute  an  American 
punched  them  vigorously  forward  with  a  prod,  and 
yet  another  thrust  them  into  the  pens  behind  the 
shearers,  who  bent  to  their  work  with  a  sullen,  back- 
breaking  stoop.  Each  man  held  between  his  knees 
a  sheep,  gripped  relentlessly,  that  flinched  and 
kicked  at  times  when  the  shears  clipped  off 
patches  of  flesh;  and  there  in  the  clamor  of  a 
thousand  voices  they  shuttled  their  keen  blades 
unceasingly,  stripping  off  a  fleece,  throwing  it 
aside,  and  seizing  a  fresh  victim  by  the  foot,  toiling 
and  sweating  grimly.  By  another  chute  a  man 
stood  with  a  paint  pot,  stamping  a  fresh  brand 
upon  every  new-shorn  sheep,  and  in  a  last  corral 
the  naked  ones,  their  white  hides  spotted  with 
blood  from  their  cuts,  blatted  frantically  for  their 
lambs.  These  were  herded  in  a  small  inclosure, 
some  large  and  browned  with  the  grime  of  the 
flock,  others  white  and  wobbly,  newborn  from  mothers 
frightened  in  the  shearing;  and  always  that  tremen- 
dous wailing  chorus — Ba-a-a,  ba-a-a,  ba-a-a — and  men 
in  greasy  clothes  wrestling  with  the  wool. 

To  a  man  used  to  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the 
round-up  and  branding  pen  and  accustomed  to  the 

[57] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

necessary  cruelties  of  stock  raising  there  was  nothing 
in  the  scene  to  attract  attention.  But  Hardy  was  of 
gentler  blood,  inured  to  the  hardships  of  frontier  life 
but  not  to  its  unthinking  brutality,  and  as  he  beheld 
for  the  first  time  the  waste,  the  hurry,  the  greed  of  it 
all,  his  heart  turned  sick  and  his  eyes  glowed  with 
pity,  like  a  woman's.  By  his  side  the  sunburned 
swarthy  giant  who  had  taken  him  willy-nilly  for  a 
friend  sat  unmoved,  his  lip  curled,  not  at  the  pity  of  it, 
but  because  they  were  sheep ;  and  because,  among  the 
men  who  rushed  about  driving  them  with  clubs  and 
sacks,  he  saw  more  than  one  who  had  eaten  at  his  table 
and  then  sheeped  out  his  upper  range.  His  saturnine 
mood  grew  upon  him  as  he  waited  and,  turning  to 
Hardy,  he  shouted  harshly : 

"There  's  some  of  your  friends  over  yonder,"  he 
said,  jerking  his  thumb  toward  a  group  of  men  who 
were  weighing  the  long  sacks  of  wool.  "Want  to  go 
over  and  get  acquainted?" 

Hardy  woke  from  his  dream  abruptly  and  shook 
his  head. 

"No,  let 's  not  stop,"  he  said,  and  Creede  laughed 
silently  as  he  reined  Bat  Wings  into  the  trail.  But 
just  as  they  started  to  go  one  of  the  men  by  the  scales 
hailed  them,  motioning  with  his  hand  and,  still  laugh- 
ing cynically,  the  foreman  of  the  Dos  S  turned  back 
again. 

[58] 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     SHEEP 

"That 's  Jim  Swope,"  he  said,  "one  of  our  big  sheep 
men — nice  feller — you  '11  like  him." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  weighing  scales,  where  two 
sweating  Mexicans  tumbled  the  eight-foot  bags  upon 
the  platform,  and  a  burly  man  with  a  Scotch  turn  to 
his  tongue  called  off  the  weights  defiantly.  At  his 
elbow  stood  two  men,  the  man  who  had  called  them 
and  a  wool  buyer, — each  keeping  tally  of  the  count. 

Jim  Swope  glanced  quickly  up  from  his  work.  He 
was  a  man  not  over  forty  but  bent  and  haggard,  with 
a  face  wrinkled  deep  with  hard  lines,  yet  lighted  by 
blue  eyes  that  still  held  a  twinkle  of  grim  humor. 

"Hello,  Jeff,"  he  said,  jotting  down  a  number  in 
his  tally  book,  "goin'  by  without  stoppin',  was  ye? 
Better  ask  the  cook  for  somethin'  to  eat.  Say,  you  're 
goin'  up  the  river,  ain't  ye?  Well,  tell  Pablo  Moreno 
and  them  Mexicans  I  lost  a  cut  of  two  hundred  sheep 
up  there  somewhere.  That  son  of  a — of  a  herder  of 
mine  was  too  lazy  to  make  a  corral  and  count  'em,  so 
I  don't  know  where  they  are  lost,  but  I  '11  give  two 
bits  a  head  for  'em,  delivered  here.  Tell  the  old  man 
that,  will  you?" 

He  paused  to  enter  another  weight  in  his  book,  then 
stepped  away  from  the  scales  and  came  out  to  meet 
them. 

"How  's  the  feed  up  your  way?"  he  inquired,  smil- 
ing grimly. 

[59] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Dam*  pore,"  replied  Creede,  carrying  on  the  jest, 
"and  it  '11  be  poorer  still  if  you  come  in  on  me,  so  keep 
away.  Mr.  Swope,  I'll  make  you  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Hardy — my  new  boss.  Judge  Ware  has  sent 
him  out  to  be  superintendent  for  the  Dos  S." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  Swope,  offering  a 
greasy  hand  that  smelled  of  sheep  dip.  "Nice  man, 
the  old  judge — here,  umbre,  put  that  bag  on  straight! 
Three  hundred  and  fifteen?  Well  I  know  a  dam' 
sight  better — excuse  me,  boys — here,  put  that  bag  on 
again,  and  weigh  it  right!" 

"Well,"  observed  Creede,  glancing  at  his  friend  as 
the  combat  raged  unremittingly,  "I  guess  we  might 
as  well  pull.  His  busy  day,  you  understand.  Nice 
feller,  though — you  '11  like  'im."  Once  more  the  glint 
of  quiet  deviltry  came  into  his  eyes,  but  he  finished 
out  the  jest  soberly.  "Comes  from  a  nice  Mormon 
family  down  in  Moroni — six  brothers — all  sheepmen. 
You  '11  see  the  rest  of  the  boys  when  they  come 
through  next  month — but  Jim  's  the  best." 

There  was  something  in  the  sardonic  smile  that 
accompanied  this  encomium  which  set  Hardy  think- 
ing. Creede  must  have  been  thinking  too,  for  he 
rode  past  the  kitchen  without  stopping,  cocking  his 
head  up  at  the  sun  as  if  estimating  the  length  of  their 
journey. 

"Oh,  did  you  want  to  git  somethin'  to  eat?"  he 

[60] 


THE     TRAIL    OF     THE     SHEEP, 

inquired  innocently.  "No?  That's  good.  That 
sheep  smell  kinder  turns  my  stomach."  And  throw- 
ing the  spurs  into  Bat  Wings  he  loped  rapidly  toward 
the  summit,  scowling  forbiddingly  in  passing  at  a 
small  boy  who  was  shepherding  the  stray  herd.  For 
a  mile  or  two  he  said  nothing,  swinging  his  head 
to  scan  the  sides  of  the  mountains  with  eyes  as 
keen  as  an  eagle's ;  then,  on  the  top  of  the  last  roll,  he 
halted  and  threw  his  hand  out  grandly  at  the  pano- 
rama which  lay  before  them. 

"There  she  lays,"  he  said,  as  if  delivering  a  funeral 
oration,  "as  good  a  cow  country  as  God  ever  made — 
and  now  even  the  jack  rabbits  have  left  it.  D  'ye  see 
that  big  mesa  down  there?"  he  continued,  pointing  to 
a  broad  stretch  of  level  land,  dotted  here  and  there 
with  giant  cactus,  which  extended  along  the  river. 
"I  've  seen  a  thousand  head  of  cattle,  fat  as  butter, 
f eedin'  where  you  see  them  sahuaros,  and  now  look 
at  it!" 

He  threw  out  his  hand  again  in  passionate  appeal, 
and  Hardy  saw  that  the  mesa  was  empty. 

"There  was  grass  a  foot  high,"  cried  Creede  in  a 
hushed,  sustained  voice,  as  if  he  saw  it  again,  "and 
flowers.  Me  and  my  brothers  and  sisters  used  to  run 
out  there  about  now  and  pick  all  kinds,  big  yaller 
poppies  and  daisies,  and  these  here  little  pansies — and 
ferget-me-nots.  God!  I  wish  I  could  ferget  'em— - 

[61] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

but  I  Ve  been  fightin'  these  sheep  so  long  and  gittin' 
so  mean  and  ugly  them  flowers  would  n't  mean  no 
more  to  me  now  than  a  bunch  of  jimson  weeds  and 
stink  squashes.  But  hell,  what's  the  use?"  He 
threw  out  his  hands  once  more,  palms  up,  and 
dropped  them  limply. 

"That 's  old  Pablo  Moreno's  place  down  there,"  he 
said,  falling  back  abruptly  into  his  old  way.  "We  '11 
stop  there  overnight — I  want  to  help  git  that  wagon 
across  the  river  when  Rafael  comes  in  bymeby,  and 
we  '11  go  up  by  trail  in  the  mornin'." 

Once  more  he  fell  into  his  brooding  silence,  looking 
up  at  the  naked  hills  from  habit,  for  there  were  no 
cattle  there.  And  Rufus  Hardy,  quick  to  under- 
stand, gazed  also  at  the  arid  slopes,  where  once  the 
grama  had  waved  like  tawny  hair  in  the  soft  winds 
and  the  cattle  of  Jeff  Creede's  father  had  stood  knee- 
high  in  flowers. 

Now  at  last  the  secret  of  Arizona-the-Lawless  and 
Arizona-the-Desert  lay  before  him:  the  feed  was 
there  for  those  who  could  take  it,  and  the  sheep  were 
taking  it  all.  It  was  government  land,  only  there 
was  no  government;  anybody's  land,  to  strip,  to  lay 
waste,  to  desolate,  to  hog  for  and  fight  over  forever — 
and  no  law  of  right;  only  this,  that  the  best  fighter 
won.  Thoughts  came  up  into  his  mind,  as  thoughts 
will  in  the  silence  of  the  desert;  memories  of  other 

[62] 


THE     TRAIL     OF     THE     SHEEP 

times  and  places,  a  word  here,  a  scene  there,  having  no 
relation  to  the  matter  in  hand ;  and  then  one  flashed  up 
like  the  premonitions  of  the  superstitious — a  verse 
from  the  Bible  that  he  had  learned  at  his  mother's 
knee  many  years  before : 

"Crying,  Peace,  Peace,  when  there  is  no  peace." 
But  he  put  it  aside  lightly,  as  a  man  should,  for  if 
one  followed  every  vagrant  fancy  and  intuition, 
taking  account  of  signs  and  omens,  he  would  slue  and 
waver  in  his  course  like  a  toy  boat  in  a  mill  pondr 
which  after  great  labor  and  adventure  comes,  in  the 
end,  to  nothing. 


[68] 


CHAPTER    IV 

DON  PABLO  MORENO 

S~\  N  the  edge  of  the  barren  mesa  and  looking  out 
over  the  sandy  flats  where  the  Salagua  writhed 
about  uneasily  in  its  bed,  the  casa  of  Don  Pablo 
Moreno  stood  like  a  mud  fort,  barricaded  by  a 
palisade  of  the  thorny  cactus  which  the  Mexicans  call 
ocotilla.  Within  this  fence,  which  inclosed  several 
acres  of  standing  grain  and  the  miniature  of  a 
garden,  there  were  all  the  signs  of  prosperity — a  new 
wagon  under  its  proper  shade,  a  storehouse  strongly 
built  where  chickens  lingered  about  for  grain,  a 
clean-swept  ramada  casting  a  deep  shadow  across 
the  open  doorway;  but  outside  the  inclosure  the 
ground  was  stamped  as  level  as  a  threshing  floor. 
As  Creede  and  Hardy  drew  near,  an  old  man, 
grave  and  dignified,  came  out  from  the  shady  veranda 
and  opened  the  gate,  bowing  with  the  most  courtly 
hospitality. 

f< Buenos  tardes,  senores"  he  pronounced,  touching 
his  hat  in  a  military  salute.  ffPasa!  Welcome  to  my 
poor  house." 

In  response  to  these  salutations  Creede  made  the 

[64] 


DON    PABLO    MORENO 

conventional  replies,  and  then  as  the  old  man  stood 
expectant  he  said  in  a  hurried  aside  to  Hardy : 

"D'  ye  talk  Spanish?  He  don't  understand  a  word 
of  English." 

"Sure,"  returned  Hardy.  "I  was  brought  up  on 
it!" 

"No!"  exclaimed  Creede  incredulously,  and  then, 
addressing  the  Sefior  Moreno  in  his  native  tongue,  he 
said:  "Don  Pablo,  this  is  my  friend  Senor  Hardy, 
who  will  live  with  me  at  Agua  Escondida!" 

"With  great  pleasure,  senor,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, removing  his  hat,  "I  make  your  acquaintance!" 

"The  pleasure  is  mine,"  replied  Hardy,  returning 
the  salutation,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  own  language 
Don  Pablo  burst  into  renewed  protestations  of 
delight.  Within  the  cool  shadow  of  his  ramada  he 
offered  his  own  chair  and  seated  himself  in  another, 
neatly  fashioned  of  mesquite  wood  and  strung  with 
thongs  of  rawhide.  Then,  turning  his  venerable  head 
to  the  doorway  which  led  to  the  inner  court,  he  shouted 
in  a  terrible  voice: 

"Muchachor 

Instantly  from  behind  the  adobe  wall,  around  the 
corner  of  which  he  had  been  slyly  peeping,  a  black- 
eyed  boy  appeared  and  stood  before  him,  his  ragged 
straw  hat  held  respectfully  against  his  breast. 

ffSus  manos!"  roared  the  old  man;  and  dropping 

5  [65] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

his  hat  the  muchacho  touched  his  hands  before  him  in 
an  attitude  of  prayer. 

"Give  the  gentlemen  a  drink!"  commanded  Don 
Pablo  severely,  and  after  Hardy  had  accepted  the 
gourd  of  cold  water  which  the  boy  dipped  from  a 
porous  olla,  resting  in  the  three-pronged  fork  of  a 
trimmed  mesquite,  the  old  gentleman  called  for  his 
tobacco.  This  the  mozo  brought  in  an  Indian  basket 
wrought  by  the  Apaches  who  live  across  the  river — 
Bull  Durham  and  brown  paper.  The  senor  offered 
these  to  his  guest,  while  Creede  grinned  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  outcome. 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  Senor  Moreno,  astounded. 
"You  do  not  smoke?  Ah,  perhaps  it  is  my  poor 
tobacco !  But  wait,  I  have  a  cigarro  which  the  store- 
keeper gave  me  when  I —  No?  No  smoke  noth- 
ing? Ah,  well,  well — no  smoke,  no  Mexicano,  as  the 
saying  goes."  He  regarded  his  guest  doubtfully, 
with  a  shadow  of  disfavor.  Then,  rolling  a  cigarette, 
he  remarked:  "You  have  a  very  white  skin,  Senor 
Hardy;  I  think  you  have  not  been  in  Arizona  very 
long." 

"Only  a  year,"  replied  Hardy  modestly. 

"Muchacho!"  cried  the  senor.  "Run  and  tell  the 
senora  to  hasten  the  dinner.  And  where,"  he  in- 
quired, with  the  shrewd  glance  of  a  country  lawyer, 

[66] 


DON    PABLO    MORENO 

"and  where  did  you  learn,  then,  this  excellent  Spanish 
which  you  speak?" 

"At  Old  Camp  Verde,  to  the  north,"  replied  Hardy 
categorically,  and  at  the  name  Creede  looked  up  with 
sudden  interest.  "I  lived  there  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Don  Pablo,  raising  his  eye- 
brows. "And  were  your  parents  with  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Hardy,  "my  father  was  an 
officer  at  the  post." 

"Ah,  si,  si,  si"  nodded  the  old  man  vigorously,  "now 
I  understand.  Your  father  fought  the  Apaches  and 
you  played  with  the  little  Mexican  boys,  no?  But 
now  your  skin  is  white — you  have  not  lived  long  under 
our  sun.  When  the  Apaches  were  conquered  your 
parents  moved,  of  course — they  are  in  San  Francisco 
now,  perhaps,  or  Nuevo  York." 

"My  father  is  living  near  San  Francisco,"  admitted 
Hardy,  "but,"  and  his  voice  broke  a  little  at  the 
words,  "my  mother  has  been  dead  many  years." 

"Ah,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Don  Pablo  sympathetic- 
ally, "I  am  very  sorry.  My  own  madre  has  been 
many  years  dead  also.  But  what  think  you  of 
our  country?  Is  it  not  beautiful?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  responded  Hardy  honestly,  "and 
you  have  a  wonderful  air  here,  very  sweet  and  pure." 

"Seguro!"  affirmed  the  old  man,  "seguro  que  si! 

[67] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

But  alas,"  he  added  sadly,  "one  cannot  live  on  air 
alone.     Ah,  que  malo,  how  bad  these  sheep  are!" 

He  sighed,  and  regarded  his  guest  sadly  with  eyes 
that  were  bloodshot  from  long  searching  of  the  hills 
for  cattle. 

"I  remember  the  day  when  the  first  sheep  came," 
he  said,  in  the  manner  of  one  who  begins  a  set  narra- 
tion. "In  the  year  of  '91  the  rain  came,  more,  more, 
more,  until  the  earth  was  full  and  the  excess  made 
lagunas  on  the  plain.  That  year  the  Salagua  left  all 
bounds  and  swept  my  fine  fields  of  standing  corn 
away,  but  we  did  not  regret  it  beyond  reason  for  the 
grass  came  up  on  the  mesas  high  as  a  horse's  belly, 
and  my  cattle  and  those  of  my  friend  Don  Luis,  the 
good  father  of  Jeff,  here,  spread  out  across  the  plains 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  and  every  cow  raised  her 
calf.  But  look !  On  the  next  year  no  rain  came,  and 
the  river  ran  low,  yet  the  plains  were  still  yellow  with 
last  year's  grass.  All  would  have  been  well  now  as 
before,  with  grass  for  all,  when  down  from  the  north 
like  grasshoppers  came  the  borregos — baaa,  baaa, 
baaa — thousands  of  them,  and  they  were  starving. 
Never  had  I  seen  bands  of  sheep  before  in  Arizona, 
nor  the  father  of  Don  Jeff,  but  some  say  they  had 
come  from  California  in  '77,  when  the  drouth  visited 
there,  and  had  increased  in  Yavapai  and  fed  out  all  the 
north  country  until,  when  this  second  ano  seco  came 

[68] 


DON    PABLO     MORENO 

upon  them,  there  was  no  grass  left  to  eat.  And  now, 
amigO;  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,  and  you  may  believe 
it,  for  I  am  an  old  man  and  have  dwelt  here  long:  It 
is  not  God  who  sends  the  dry  years,  but  the  sheep! 

"Mlra!  I  have  seen  the  mowing  machine  of  the 
Americano  cut  the  tall  grass  and  leave  all  level — so 
the  starved  sheep  of  Yavapai  swept  across  our  mesa 
and  left  it  bare.  Yet  was  there  feed  for  all,  for  our 
cattle  took  to  the  mountains  and  browsed  higher  on. 
the  bushes,  above  where  the  sheep  could  reach;  and: 
the  sheep  went  past  and  spread  out  on  the  southern 
desert  and  were  lost  in  it,  it  was  so  great. 

"That  was  all,  you  will  say — but  no !  In  the  Spring- 
every  ewe  had  her  lamb,  and  many  two,  and  they  grew 
fat  and  strong,  and  when  the  grass  became  dry  on  the* 
desert  because  the  rains  had  failed  again,  they  came 
back,  seeking  their  northern  range  where  the  weather 
was  cool,  for  a  sheep  cannot  endure  the  heat.  Then 
we  who  had  let  them  pass  in  pity  were  requited  after 
the  way  of  the  borregueros — we  were  sheeped  out, 
down  to  the  naked  rocks,  and  the  sheepmen  went  on, 
laughing  insolently.  'Ay,  que  malo  los  borregueros,, 
what  devils  they  are;  for  hunger  took  the  strength 
from  our  cows  so  that  they  could  not  suckle  their 
calves,  and  in  giving  birth  many  mothers  and  their 
little  ones  died  together.  In  that  year  we  lost  half 
our  cows,  Don  Luis  Creede  and  I,  and  those  that 

[69] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

lived  became  thin  and  rough,  as  they  are  to  this  day, 
from  journeying  to  the  high  mountains  for  feed  and 
back  to  the  far  river  for  water. 

"Then  the  father  of  Jeff  became  very  angry,  so 
that  he  lost  weight  and  his  face  became  changed, 
and  he  took  an  oath  that  the  first  sheep  or  sheep- 
herder  that  crossed  his  range  should  be  killed,  and 
every  one  thereafter,  as  long  as  he  should  live.  Ah, 
what  a  buen  hombre  was  Don  Luis- — if  we  had  one 
man  like  him  to-day  the  sheep  would  yet  go  round — 
a  big  man,  with  a  beard,  and  he  had  no  fear,  no  not 
for  a  hundred  men.  And  when  in  November  the 
sheep  came  bleating  back,  for  they  had  promised  so 
to  do  as  soon  as  the  feed  was  green,  Don  Luis  met 
them  at  the  river,  and  he  rode  along  its  bank,  night 
and  day,  promising  all  the  same  fate  who  should  come 
across — and,  umbre,  the  sheep  went  round!" 

The  old  man  slapped  his  leg  and  nodded  his  head 
solemnly.  Then  he  looked  across  at  Creede  and  his 
voice  took  on  a  great  tenderness.  "My  friend  has 
been  dead  these  many  years,"  he  said,  "but  he  was  a 
true  man." 

As  Don  Pablo  finished  his  story  the  Senora  opened 
the  door  of  the  kitchen  where  the  table  was  already 
set  with  boiled  beans,  meat  stewed  with  peppers,  and 
thin  corn  cakes — the  conventional  frijoles,  came  con 
chili,  and  tortillas  of  the  Mexicans — and  some  fried 

[70] 


DON    PABLO    MORENO 

eggs  in  honor  of  the  company.  As  the  meal  pro- 
gressed the  Senora  maintained  a  discreet  silence, 
patting  out  tortillas  and  listening  politely  to  her  hus- 
band's stock  of  stories,  for  Don  Pablo  was  lord  in  his 
own  house.  The  big-eyed  muchacho  sat  in  the  corner, 
watching  the  corn  cakes  cook  on  the  top  of  the  stove 
and  battening  on  the  successive  rations  which  were 
handed  out  to  him.  There  were  stories,  as  they  ate, 
of  the  old  times,  of  the  wars  and  revolutions  of 
Soriora,  wherein  the  Senor  Moreno  had  taken  too 
brave  a  part,  as  his  wounds  and  exile  showed ;  strange 
tales  of  wonders  and  miracles  wrought  by  the  Indian 
doctors  of  Altar ;  of  sacred  snakes  with  the  sign  of  the 
cross  blazoned  in  gold  on  their  foreheads,  worshipped 
by  the  Indians  with  offerings  of  milk  and  tender 
chickens;  of  primitive  life  on  the  haciendas  of  Sohora, 
where  men  served  their  masters  for  life  and  were 
rewarded  at  the  end  with  a  pension  of  beans  and  came 
seco. 

Then  as  the  day  waned  they  sat  at  peace  in  the 
ramada,  Moreno  and  Creede  smoking,  and  Hardy 
watching  the  play  of  colors  as  the  sun  touched 
the  painted  crags  of  the  Bulldog  and  lighted  up 
the  square  summit  of  Red  Butte  across  the  river, 
throwing  mysterious  shadows  into  the  black  gorge 
which  split  it  from  crown  to  base.  Between  that 
high  cliff  and  the  cleft  red  butte  flowed  the  Salagua, 

[71] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

squirming  through  its  tortuous  canon,  and  beyond 
them  lay  Hidden  Water,  the  unknown,  whither  a 
single  man  was  sent  to  turn  back  the  tide  of  sheep. 

In  the  silence  the  tinkle  of  bells  came  softly  from 
up  the  canon  and. through  the  dusk  Hardy  saw  a  herd 
of  goats,  led  by  a  long-horned  ram,  trailing  slowly 
down  from  the  mesa.  They  did  not  pause,  either  to 
rear  up  on  their  hind  feet  for  browse  or  to  snoop 
about  the  gate,  but  filed  dutifully  into  their  own 
corral  and  settled  down  for  the  night. 

"Your  goats  are  well  trained,  Don  Pablo,"  said 
Hardy,  by  way  of  conversation.  "They  come  home 
of  their  own  accord." 

"Ah,  no,"  protested  Moreno,  rising  from  his  chair, 
"It  is  not  the  goats  but  my  goat  dogs  that  are  well 
trained.  Come  with  me  while  I  close  the  gate  and  I 
will  show  you  my  flock." 

The  old  gentleman  walked  leisurely  down  the  trail 
to  the  corral,  and  at  their  approach  Hardy  saw  two 
shaggy  dogs  of  no  breed  suddenly  detach  themselves 
from  the  herd  and  spring  defiantly  forward. 

"Quita  se3  quita  sel"  commanded  Don  Pablo,  and 
at  his  voice  they  halted,  still  growling  and  baring  their 
fangs  at  Hardy. 

"Mira"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "are  they  not 
bravo?  Many  times  the  borregueros  have  tried  to 
steal  my  bucks  to  lead  their  timid  sheep  across  the 

[72] 


DON    PABLO     MORENO 

river,  but  Tira  and  Diente  fight  them  like  devils. 
One  Summer  for  a  week  the  chivas  did  not  return, 
having  wandered  far  up  into  the  mountains,  but  in 
the  end  Tira  and  Diente  fetched  them  safely  home. 
See  them  now,  lying  down  by  the  mother  goat  that 
suckled  them;  you  would  not  believe  it,  but  they 
think  they  are  goats." 

He  laughed  craftily  at  the  idea,  and  at  Hardy's 
eager  questions. 

"Seguro"  he  said,  "surely  I  will  tell  you  about  my 
goat  dogs,  for  you  Americans  often  think  the  Mexi- 
cans are  tonto,  having  no  good  sense,  because  our 
ways  are  different.  When  I  perceived  that  my  cattle 
were  doomed  by  reason  of  the  sheep  trail  crossing  the 
river  here  at  my  feet  I  bought  me  a  she-goat  with 
kids,  and  a  ram  from  another  flock.  These  I  herded 
myself  along  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  they  soon 
learned  to  rear  up  against  the  bushes  and  feed  upon 
the  browse  which  the  sheep  could  not  reach.  Thus 
I  thought  that  I  might  in  time  conquer  the  sheep, 
fighting  the  devil  with  fire;  but  the  coyotes  lay 
in  wait  constantly  to  snatch  the  kids,  and  once  when 
the  river  was  high  the  borregueros  of  Jeem  Swopa 
stole  my  buck  to  lead  their  sheep  across. 

"Then  I  remembered  a  trick  of  my  own  people  in 
Sonora,  and  I  took  the  blind  pups  of  a  dog,  living  far 
from  here,  and  placed  each  of  them  with  a  she-goat 

[73] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

having  one  newborn  kid ;  and  while  the  kid  was  suck- 
ing at  one  teat  the  mother  could  not  help  but  let  down 
milk  for  the  puppy  at  the  other,  until  at  last  when  the 
dog  smell  had  left  him  she  adopted  him  for  her  own. 
Now  as  the  pups  grew  up  they  went  out  on  the 
hills  with  their  goat  mother,  and  when,  they  being 
grown,  she  would  no  longer  suckle  them,  they  stole 
milk  from  the  other  she-goats;  and  so  they  live  to- 
day, on  milk  and  what  rabbits  they  can  catch.  But 
whenever  they  come  to  the  house  I  beat  them  and 
drive  them  back — their  nature  is  changed  now,  and 
they  love  only  goats.  Eight  years  ago  I  raised  my 
first  goat  dogs,  for  many  of  them  desert  their  mothers 
and  become  house  dogs,  and  now  I  have  over  a 
hundred  goats,  which  they  lead  out  morning  and 
night." 

The  old  man  lashed  fast  the  gate  to  the  corral  and 
turned  back  toward  the  house. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said  musingly,  "the  Americanos  say 
continually  that  we  Mexicanos  are  foolish — but  look 
at  me!  Here  is  my  good  home,  the  same  as  before. 
I  have  always  plenty  beans,  plenty  meat,  plenty  flour, 
plenty  coffee.  I  welcome  every  one  to  my  house,  to 
eat  and  sleep — yet  I  have  plenty  left.  I  am  muy 
contentOj  Senor  Hardy — yes,  I  am  always  happy. 
But  the  Americanos?  No!  When  the  sheep  come, 
they  fight;  when  their  cattle  are  gone,  they  move; 

[74] 


DON    PABLO    MORENO 

fight,  fight;  move,  move;  all  the  time."  He  sighed 
and  gazed  wearily  at  the  barren  hills. 

"Senor  Hardy,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are  young,  yet 
you  have  seen  the  great  world — perhaps  you  will  un- 
derstand. Jeff  tells  me  you  come  to  take  charge  of 
the  Dos  S  Rancho,  where  the  sheep  come  through  by 
thousands,  even  as  they  did  here  when  there  .was  grass. 
I  am  an  old  man  now;  I  have  lived  on  this  spot 
twenty-four  years  and  seen  much  of  the  sheep ;  let  me 
advise  you. 

"When  the  sheepmen  come  across  the  river  do  not 
fight,  as  Don  Jeff  does  continually,  but  let  them  pass. 
They  are  many  and  the  cowmen  are  few;  they  are 
rich  and  we  are  very  poor;  how  then  can  a  few  men 
whip  many,  and  those  armed  with  the  best?  And 
look — if  a  sheepman  is  killed  there  is  the  law,  you 
know,  and  lawyers — yes,  and  money!"  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  threw  out  his  hands,  peeping  rue- 
fully through  the  fingers  to  symbolize  prison  bars. 

"Is  it  not  so?"  he  asked,  and  for  the  first  time  an 
Americano  agreed  with  him. 

"One  thing  more,  then,"  said  Don  Pablo,  lowering 
his  voice  and  glancing  toward  the  house,  where  Creede 
was  conversing  with  the  Senora.  "  The  papa  of  Don 
Jeff  yonder  was  a  good  man,  but  he  was  a  fighting 
Texano — and  Jeff  is  of  the  same  blood.  Each  year 
as  the  sheep  come  through  I  have  fear  for  him,  lest  he 

[75] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

should  kill  some  saucy  borreguero  and  be  sent  to 
prison;  for  he  has  angry  fits,  like  his  father,  and  there 
are  many  bad  men  among  the  sheep -herders, — escaped 
criminals  from  Old  Mexico,  ladrones,  and  creatures  of 
low  blood,  fathered  by  evil  Americanos  and  the  name- 
less women  of  towns. 

"In  Sonora  we  would  whip  them  from  our  door, 
but  the  sheepmen  make  much  of  their  herders,  calling 
them  brothers  and  cunados  and  what  not,  to  make 
them  stay,  since  the  work  is  hard  and  dangerous. 
And  to  every  one  of  them,  whether  herder  or  camp 
rustler,  the  owners  give  a  rifle  with  ammunition,  and 
a  revolver  to  carry  always.  So  they  are  drunk  with 
valor.  But  our  Jeff  here  has  no  fear  of  them,  no,  nor 
decent  respect.  He  overrides  them  when  the  fit  is  on 
him,  as  if  they  were  unfanged  serpents — and  so  far 
lie  has  escaped." 

The  old  man  leaned  closer,  and  lowered  his  voice  to 
a  hoarse  whisper,  acting  out  his  words  dramatically. 

"But  some  day — "  he  clasped  his  heart,  closed  his 
eyes,  and  seemed  to  lurch  before  a  bullet.  "No?"  he 
inquired,  softly.  "Ah,  well,  then,  you  must  watch 
over  him,  for  he  is  a  good  man,  doing  many  friend- 
ships, and  his  father  was  a  buen  hombre,  too,  in  the 
days  when  we  all  were  rich.  So  look  after  him — for 
an  old  man,"  he  added,  and  trudged  wearily  back  to 
the  house. 

[76] 


CHAPTER    V 

HIDDEN   WATER 

rr1  HE  trail  to  Hidden  Water  leads  up  the  Salagua, 
alternately  climbing  the  hard  mesa  and  losing 
itself  in  the  shifting  sand  of  the  river  bottom  until,  a  \ 
mile  or  two  below  the  mouth  of  the  box  canon,  it 
swings  in  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  But  the  Salagua 
is  no  purling  brook,  dignified  by  a  bigger  name;  it  is 
not  even  a  succession  of  mill  ponds  like  the  dammed- 
up  streams  of  the  East:  in  its  own  name  the  Salagua 
is  a  Bio.,  broad  and  swift,  with  a  current  that  clutches 
treacherously  at  a  horse's  legs  and  roars  over  the 
brink  of  stony  reefs  in  a  long,  fretful  line  of  rapids. 
At  the  head  of  a  broad  mill  race,  where  the  yellow 
flood  waters  boiled  sullenly  before  they  took  their 
plunge,  Creede  pulled  up  and  surveyed  the  river 
doubtfully. 

"Swim?"  he  inquired,  and  when  Hardy  nodded  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  his  horse  into  the 
water.  "Keep  your  head  upstream,  then,"  he  said, 
"we  '11  try  it  a  whirl,  anyhow." 

Head  to  tail  the  two  horses  plodded  heavily  across 
the  ford,  feeling  their  way  among  the  submerged 

[77] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

bowlders,  while  twenty  feet  below  them  the  irresistible 
onrush  of  the  current  slipped  smoothly  over  the  rim, 
sending  up  a  roar  like  the  thunder  of  breakers.  As 
they  struggled  up  the  opposite  bank  after  a  final 
slump  into  a  narrow  ditch  Creede  looked  back  and 
laughed  merrily  at  his  bedraggled  companion. 

"How  's  that  for  high?"  he  inquired,  slapping  his 
wet  legs.  "I  tell  you,  the  old  Salagua  is  a  hell-roarer 
when  she  gits  started.  I  would  n't  cross  there  this 
afternoon  for  a  hundred  dollars.  She  's  away  up 
since  we  took  the  wagon  over  last  night,  but  about  to- 
morrow you  '11  hear  her  talk — snow  's  meltin'  on  the 
mountains.  I  wish  to  God  she  'd  stay  up!"  he  added 
fervently,  as  he  poured  the  water  out  of  his  boots. 

"Why?"  asked  Hardy  innocently.  "Won't  it  in- 
terfere with  your  bringing  in  supplies?" 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Creede,  and  then  he  laughed 
maliciously.  "But  when  you  Ve  been  up  here  a 
while,"  he  observed,  "you  '11  savvy  a  lot  of  things  that 
look  kinder  curious.  If  the  old  river  would  git  up  on 
its  hind  legs  and  walk,  forty  feet  high,  and  stay  there 
f 'r  a  month,  we  cowmen  would  simply  laugh  our- 
selves to  death.  We  don't  give  a  dam'  for  supplies 
as  long  as  it  keeps  the  sheep  out. 

"Begin  to  see  light,  eh?"  he  queried,  as  he  pushed 
on  up  the  river.  "Well,  that 's  the  only  thing  in 
God's  world  that  wasn't  made  to  order  for  these 

[78] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sheepmen;  the  old  Salagua  cuts  right  square  across 
the  country  east  and  west  without  consultin'  nobody, 
not  even  Jim  Swope,  and  the  sheep  move  north  and 
south. 

"How  'd  you  like  to  have  the  job  of  crossing  a  hun- 
dred thousand  borregos  and  half  of  'em  with  lambs, 
when  the  rio  was  on  a  bender?  I  Ve  seen  some  of 
these  sheepmen  wadin'  around  up  to  their  chins  for 
two  weeks,  tryin'  to  float  twenty-five  hundred  head 
across  the  river — and  there  was  n't  turkey  buzzards 
enough  in  the  country  when  they  got  through. 

"Last  year  they  had  the  sand  bars  up  around  Hid- 
den Water  lined  with  carcasses  two  deep  where  they  'd 
jest  naturally  crowded  'em  into  the  river  and  let  'em 
sink  or  swim.  Them  Chihuahua  Mexicans,  you 
savvy.  After  they  'd  wore  out  their  shoes  and  froze 
their  marrow-bones  wadin'  they  got  tired  and  shoved 
'em  in,  regardless.  Well,  if  this  warm  weather  holds 
we  '11  be  able  to  git  our  roder  good  and  started  before 
the  sheep  come  in.  That 's  one  reason  why  I  never 
was  able  to  do  much  with  these  sheepmen,"  he  added. 
"They  hit  me  right  square  in  the  middle  of  the  round- 
up, Spring  and  Fall,  when  I  'm  too  busy  gatherin' 
cattle  to  pay  much  attention  to  'em.  I  did  plan  a 
little  surprise  party  last  year — but  that  was  somethin* 
special.  But  now  you  're  on  the  job,  Rufe,"  he  con- 
tinued reassuringly,  "I  'm  goin'  to  leave  all  sheep  and 

[79] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sheepmen  strictly  alone — you  can  bank  on  that. 
Bein'  as  we  are  goin'  to  try  the  expeeriment  I  want 
to  see  it  done  right.  I  never  made  a  cent  fightin' 
'em,  that 's  a  cinch,  and  if  you  can  appeal  to  their 
better  natures,  w'y,  g°  to  it !  I  'd  help  you  if  I  could, 
but  bein'  as  I  can't  I  '11  git  out  of  the  road  and  give 
you  a  chanst. 

"Now  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  '11  be,"  he  continued, 
turning  in  his  saddle  and  hooking  one  leg  over  the 
horn,  "the  boys  '11  come  in  for  the  roder  to-morrow  or 
next  day ;  we  begin  to  gather  on  the  first,  and  it  takes 
us  about  a  month.  Well,  we  look  for  the  sheep  to 
come  in  on  us  at  about  the  same  time — first  of  April — 
and  we  ain't  been  fooled  yet.  They  '11  begin  to  stack 
up  on  the  other  side  any  time  now,  and  as  soon 
as  the  water  goes  down  they  '11  come  across  with 
a  rush.  And  if  they  're  f eelin'  good-natured  they  '11 
spread  out  over  The  Rolls  and  drift  north,  but 
if  they  're  f  eelin'  bad  they  '11  sneak  up  onto  Bronco 
Mesa  and  scatter  the  cattle  forty  ways  for  Sun- 
day, and  bust  up  my  roder  and  raise  hell  gen- 
erally. We  had  a  little  trouble  over  that  last  year," 
he  added  parenthetically. 

"Well,  I  '11  turn  over  the  house  and  the  grub  and 
the  whole  business  to  you  this  year  and  camp  out  with 
the  boys  under  the  mesquite — and  then  you  can  enter- 
tain them  sheepmen  and  jolly  'em  up  no  end.  They 

[80] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

won't  have  a  dam'  thing — horse  feed,  grub,  tobacco, 
matches,  nothin'l  Never  do  have  any  thin'.  I  'd 
rather  have  a  bunch  of  Apaches  camped  next  to  me — 
but  if  you  want  to  be  good  to  'em  there  's  your  chanst. 
Meanwhile,  I  'm  only  a  cow-punch  pullin'  off  a  round- 
up, and  your  name  is  Mr. — you  're  the  superintend- 
ent of  the  Dos  S.  Your  job  is  to  protect  the  upper 
range,  and  I  begin  to  think  you  can  do  it." 

There  was  a  tone  of  half-hearted  enthusiasm  about 
this  talk  which  marked  it  for  a  prepared  "spiel," 
laboriously  devised  to  speed  the  new  superintendent 
upon  his  way;  but,  not  being  schooled  in  social  deceit, 
Creede  failed  utterly  in  making  it  convincing. 

"That 's  good,"  said  Hardy,  "but  tell  me— what 
has  been  your  custom  in  the  past  ?  Have  n't  you  been 
in  the  habit  of  feeding  them  when  they  came  in?" 

"Feed  'em?"  cried  Creede,  flaring  up  suddenly. 
"Did  I  feed  'em?  Well,  I  should  guess  yes — I  never 
turned  one  away  hungry  in  my  life.  W'y,  hell,  man," 
he  exclaimed,  his  anger  growing  on  him,  "I  slep'  in 
the  same  blanket  with  'em — until  I  become  lousy,"  he 
added  grimly. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Hardy,  aghast.  "You  don't 
mean  to  say — " 

"No,"  interrupted  Creede  ironically,  "I  don't  mean 
to  say  anythin' — not  from  now  on.  But  while  we  're 
on  the  subject  and  to  avoid  any  future  misunder- 
6  [81] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

standin'  I  might  just  as  well  tell  you  right  now  that  I 
can't  see  nothin'  good  in  a  sheepman — nothin!  I  'm 
like  my  cat  Tom  when  he  sees  a  rattlesnake,  my  hair 
bushes  up  clean  over  my  ears  and  I  see  hell,  damna- 
tion, and  sudden  death!" 

He  rose  up,  frowning,  on  his  mighty  horse  and 
gazed  at  Hardy  with  eyes  that  burned  deep  with 
passion.  "If  every  sheep  and  sheepman  in  Arizona 
should  drop  dead  at  this  minute,"  he  said,  "it  would 
simply  give  me  a  laughin'  sensation.  God  damn 
5em!"  he  added  passionately,  and  it  sounded  like  a 
prayer. 

Half  an  hour  later  as  they  passed  through  the 
gloomy  silence  of  the  box  canon,  picking  their  way 
over  rocks  and  bowlders  and  driftwood  cast  forty  feet 
above  the  river  level  in  some  terrific  glut  of  waters, 
he  began  to  talk  again,  evenly  and  quietly,  pointing 
out  indifferent  things  along  the  trail,  and  when  at  last 
they  mounted  the  hill  and  looked  down  upon  Hidden 
Water  his  anger  was  forgotten. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  throwing  out  a  hand, 
"there  's  home — how  do  you  like  it?" 

Hardy  paused  and  looked  it  over  critically — a 
broad  V-shaped  valley  half  a  mile  in  length,  begin- 
ning at  the  mouth  of  a  great  dry  wash  and  spreading 
out  through  trees  and  hummocks  down  to  the  river. 
A  broken  row  of  cottonwoods  and  sycamores  stretched 

[82] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

along  the  farther  side,  following  the  broad,  twist- 
ing bed  of  the  sand  wash  where  the  last  flood  had 
ripped  its  way  to  the  Salagua;  and  on  the  opposite 
side,  close  up  against  the  base  of  the  cliff,  a  flash  of 
white  walls  and  the  shadow  of  a  ramada  showed  where 
man  had  built  his  puny  dwelling  high  in  order  to  <. 
escape  its  fury.  At  their  feet  lay  the  ranch  pasture,  * 
a  broad  elbow  of  the  valley  rich  with  grass  and  ; 
mesquite  trees  and  fenced  in  with  barbed  wire  that  ran 
from  cliff  to  cliff.  Beyond  the  eastern  wall  the 
ground  was  rough  and  broken,  cut  up  by  innumerable 
gulches  and  waterways,  and  above  its  ridges  there 
rose  the  forbidding  crags  of  a  black  butte  whose 
shoulders  ran  down  to  and  confined  the  silvery  river. 
Across  the  river  and  to  the  south  the  land  was  even 
rougher,  rising  in  sheer  precipices,  above  the  crests  of 
which  towered  a  mighty  needle  of  rock,  standing  out 
against  the  sky  like  a  cathedral  spire,  yet  of  a  greater 
dignity  and  magnificence — purple  with  the  regal  robes 
of  distance. 

"That's  Weaver's  Needle,"  volunteered  Creede, 
following  his  companion's  eyes.  "Every  lost  mine  for 
a  hundred  miles  around  here  is  located  by  sightin'  at 
that  peak.  The  feller  it 's  named  after  was  picked  up 
by  the  Apaches  while  he  was  out  lookin'  for  the  Lost 
Dutchman  and  there  's  been  a  Jonah  on  the  hidden- 
treasure  business  ever  since,  judgin'  by  the  results. 

[83] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"D'  ye  see  that  big  butte  straight  ahead?  That 's 
Black  Butte.  She  's  so  rough  that  even  the  mountain 
sheep  git  sore-footed,  so  they  say — we  have  to  go  up 
there  on  foot  and  drive  our  cattle  down  with  rocks. 
Old  Bill  Johnson's  place  is  over  the  other  side  of  that 
far  butte ;  he  's  got  a  fine  rich  valley  over  there — the 
sheep  have  n't  got  in  on  him  yet.  You  remember  that 
old  feller  that  was  drunk  down  at  Bender — well, 
that 's  Bill.  Calls  his  place  Hell's  Hip  Pocket;  you 
wait  till  you  try  to  git  in  there  some  day  and  you  '11 
know  why.'' 

He  paused  and  turned  to  the  north. 

"Might  as  well  give  you  the  lay  of  the  land,"  he 
said.  "I  '11  be  too  busy  to  talk  for  the  next  month. 
There  's  the  Four  Peaks,  northeast  of  us,  and  our 
cows  run  clean  to  the  rocks.  They  's  more  different 
brands  in  that  forty  miles  than  you  saw  in  the  whole 
Cherrycow  country,  I  bet  ye.  I  've  got  five  myself 
on  a  couple  hundred  head  that  the  old  man  left  me — 
and  everybody  else  the  same  way.  You  see,  when 
the  sheep  come  in  down  on  the  desert  and  around 
Moreno's  we  kept  pushin'  what  was  left  of  our 
cattle  east  and  east  until  we  struck  the  Peaks — 
and  here  we  are,  in  a  corner.  The  old  judge 
has  got  nigh  onto  two  thousand  head,  but  they  's  about 
twenty  of  us  poor  devils  livin'  up  here  in  the  rocks  that 

[841 


HIDDEN    WATER 

has  got  enough  irons  and  ear  marks  to  fill  a  brand 
book,  and  not  a  thousand  head  among  us. 

"Well,  I  started  out  to  show  you  the  country, 
did  n't  I  ?  You  see  that  bluff  back  of  the  house  down 
there?  That  runs  from  here  clean  to  the  Four  Peaks, 
without  a  break,  and  then  it  swings  west  in  a  kind  of 
an  ox  bow  and  makes  that  long  ridge  up  there  to  the 
north  that  we  called  the  Juate.  All  that  high  coun- 
try between  our  house  here  and  the  Peaks — every- 
thin'  east  of  that  long  bluff — is  Bronco  Mesa* 
That 's  the  upper  range  the  judge  asked  me  to  point 
out  to  you.  Everythin'  west  of  Bronco  Mesa  is  The 
Rolls — all  them  rollin'  hills  out  there — and  they  's 
feed  enough  out  there  to  keep  all  the  sheep  in  the 
country,  twice  over — but  no  water.  Now  what 
makes  us  cowmen  hot  is,  after  we  Ve  give  'em 
that  country  and  welcome,  the  sheepmen  're  all 
the  time  tryin'  to  sneak  in  on  our  upper  range* 
Our  cows  can't  hardly  make  a  livin'  walkin'  ten  or 
fifteen  miles  out  on  The  Rolls  every  day,  and  then 
back  again  to  water;  but  them  dam'  sheep  can  go  a 
week  without  drinkin',  and  as  much  as  a  month  in 
the  winter-time. 

"Why  can't  they  give  us  a  chanst,  then?  We  give 
'em  all  the  good  level  land  and  simply  ask  'em  as  a 
favor  to  please  keep  off  of  the  bench  up  there  and 

[85] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

leave  our  cows  what  little  cactus  and  browse  they  is. 
But  no — seems  like  as  soon  as  you  give  one  of  them 
Chihuahua  Mexicans  a  gun  he  wants  to  git  a  fight 
out  of  somebody,  and  so  they  come  crowdin'  in  across 
our  dead  line,  just  to  see  if  they  can't  git  some  of  us 
goin'." 

Once  more  his  eyes  were  burning,  his  breath  came 
hard,  and  his  voice  became  high  and  sustained. 
"Well,  I  give  one  of  'em  all  he  wanted,"  he  said,  "and 
more.  I  took  his  dam'  pistol  away  and  beat  him  over 
the  head  with  it — and  I  moved  him,  too.  He  was 
Jasper  Swope's  pet,  and  I  reckon  he  had  his  orders, 
but  I  noticed  the  rest  went  round." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  sat  silent,  twisting  his 
horse's  mane  uneasily.  Then  he  looked  up,  smiling 
curiously. 

"If  you  had  n't  come  up  this  year  I  would  've  killed 
some  of  them  fellers,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  'm  gittin' 
as  crazy  as  old  Bill  Johnson — and  he  hears  voices. 
But  now  lookee  here,  Rufe,  you  don't  want  to  believe 
a  word  I  say  about  this  trouble.  Don't  you  pay  any 
attention  to  me ;  I  'm  bughouse,  and  I  know  it.  Jest 
don't  mention  sheep  to  me  and  I  '11  be  as  happy  as  an 
Injun  on  a  mescal  jag.  Come  on,  I  '11  run  you  to  the 
house!" 

Throwing  his  weight  forward  he  jumped  his  big 
horse  down  the  rocky  trail  and  went  thundering  across 

[86] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  flat,  whooping  and  laughing  and  swinging  under 
mesquite  trees  as  if  his  whole  heart  was  in  the  race. 
Catching  the  contagion  Hardy's  sorrel  dashed 
madly  after  him,  and  the  moment  they  struck  the 
open  he  went  by  like  a  shot,  over-running  the  goal 
and  dancing  around  the  low  adobe  house  like  a 
circus  horse. 

"By  Joe,"  exclaimed  Creede  as  he  came  up,  "that 
cdballo  of  yours  can  run  some.  I  'm  goin'  to  make  a 
little  easy  money  off  of  Bill  Lightf oot  when  he  comes 
in.  He  's  been  blowin'  about  that  gray  of  his  for  two 
years  now  and  I  '11  match  you  ag'inst  him  for  a 
yearlin'.  And  don't  you  forgit,  boy,  we're  going 
after  that  black  stallion  up  on  Bronco  Mesa  just  as 
soon  as  the  roder  is  over." 

His  face  was  all  aglow  with  friendliness  and  en- 
thusiasm now,  but  as  they  started  toward  the  house, 
after  turning  their  horses  into  the  corral,  he  suddenly 
stopped  short  in  the  trail. 

"Gee,"  he  said,  "I  wonder  what's  keepin'  Tom? 
Here  Tom!  Heere  Tom!  Pussy,  pussy,  pussy!"  He 
listened,  and  called  again.  "I  hope  the  coyotes  ain't 
2aught  him  while  I  was  gone,"  he  said  at  length. 
"They  treed  him  a  few  times  last  year,  but  he  just 
stayed  up  there  and  yelled  until  I  came — spoiled  his 
voice  callin'  so  long,  but  you  bet  he  can  purr,  all 
right." 

[87] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

He  listened  once  more,  long  and  anxiously,  then 
his  face  lit  up  suddenly. 

"Hear  that?"  he  asked,  motioning  toward  the  bluff, 
and  while  Hardy  was  straining  his  ears  a  stunted 
black  cat  with  a  crook  in  his  tail  came  into  view,  rac- 
ing in  wildly  from  the  great  pile  of  fallen  bowlders 
that  lay  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  and  yowling  in  a 
hoarse,  despairing  voice,  like  a  condemned  kitten  in  a 
sack. 

"Hello,  Tommy,  Tommy,  Tommy!"  cried  Creede, 
and  as  the  cat  stopped  abruptly,  blinking  warily  at 
Hardy,  he  strode  forward  and  gathered  it  gently  into 
his  arms.  "Well,  you  poor  little  devil,"  he  exclaimed, 
stroking  its  rough  coat  tenderly,  "you  're  all  chawed 
up  again !  Did  them  dam'  coyotes  try  to  git  you  while 
I  was  gone?"  And  with  many  profane  words  of  en- 
dearment he  hugged  it  against  his  breast,  unashamed. 

"There  's  the  gamiest  cat  in  Arizona,"  he  said, 
bringing  him  over  to  Hardy  with  conscious  pride. 
"Whoa,  kitten,  he  won't  hurt  you.  Dogged  if  he 
won't  tackle  a  rattlesnake,  and  kill  'im,  too.  I  used 
to  be  afraid  to  git  out  of  bed  at  night  without  puttin' 
on  my  boots,  but  if  any  old  rattler  crawls  under  my 
cot  now  it 's  good-bye,  Mr.  Snake.  Tommy  is  right 
there  with  the  goods — and  he  ain't  been  bit  yet, 
neither.  He  killed  three  side-winders  last  Summer — 
didn't  you,  Tom,  Old  Socks? — and  if  any  sheep- 

[88] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

herder's  dog  comes  snoopin'  around  the  back  door 
he  '11  mount  him  in  a  minute.  If  a  man  was  as  brave 
as  he  is,  now,  he  'd — well,  that 's  the  trouble — he 
would  n't  last  very  long  in  this  country.  I  used  to 
wonder  sometimes  which  'd  go  first — me  or  Tom. 
The  sheepmen  was  after  me,  and  their  dogs  was  after 
Tom.  But  I  'm  afraid  poor  Tommy  is  elected ;  this  is 
a  dam'  bad  country  for  cats." 

He  set  him  down  with  a  glance  of  admiring  solici- 
tude, such  as  a  Spartan  mother  might  have  bestowed 
upon  her  fighting  offspring,  and  kicked  open  the  un- 
locked door. 

The  Dos  S  ranch  house  was  a  long,  low  structure 
of  adobe  bricks,  divided  in  the  middle  by  the  open 
passageway  which  the  Mexicans  always  affect  to  en- 
courage any  vagrant  breeze.  On  one  side  of  the 
corredor  was  a  single  large  room,  half  storehouse, 
half  bunk  room,  with  a  litter  of  pack  saddles,  raw- 
hide kyacks  and  leather  in  one  corner,  a  heap 
of  baled  hay,  grain,  and  provisions  in  the  other, 
and  the  rest  strewn  with  the  general  wreckage  of  a 
camp — cooking  utensils,  Dutch  ovens,  canvas  pack 
covers,  worn-out  saddles,  and  ropes.  On  the  other 
side  the  rooms  were  more  pretentious,  one  of  them 
even  having  a  board  floor.  First  came  the  large 
living-room  with  a  stone  chimney  and  a  raised 
hearth  before  the  fireplace;  whereon,  each  on  its 

[89] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

separate  pile  of  ashes,  reposed  two  Dutch  ovens,  a 
bean  kettle,  and  a  frying-pan,  with  a  sawed-ofF  shovel 
in  the  corner  for  scooping  up  coals.  Opening  into 
the  living-room  were  two  bedrooms,  which,  upon  ex- 
ploration, turned  out  to  be  marvellously  fitted  up,  with 
high-headed  beds,  bureaus  and  whatnots,  besides  a 
solid  oak  desk. 

To  these  explorations  of  Hardy's  Creede  paid  but 
slight  attention,  he  being  engaged  in  cooking  a  hur- 
ried meal  and  watching  Tommy,  who  had  a  bad  habit 
of  leaping  up  on  the  table  and  stealing ;  but  as  Hardy 
paused  by  the  desk  in  the  front  bedroom  he  looked  up 
from  mixing  his  bread  and  said : 

"That 's  your  room,  Rufe,  so  you  can  clean  it  up 
and  move  in.  I  generally  sleep  outdoors  myself — 
and  I  ain't  got  nothin',  nohow.  Jest  put  them  guns 
and  traps  into  the  other  room,  so  I  can  find  'em.  Aw, 
go  ahead,  you  '11  need  that  desk  to  keep  your  papers 
in.  You  Ve  got  to  write  all  the  letters  and  keep  the 
accounts,  anyhow.  It  always  did  make  my  back  ache 
to  lean  over  that  old  desk,  and  I  'm  glad  to  git  shent 
of  it. 

"Pretty  swell  rooms,  ain't  they?  Notice  them  lace 
curtains?  The  kangaroo  rats  have  chawed  the  ends 
a  little,  but  I  tell  you,  when  Susie  and  Sallie  Winship 
was  here  this  was  the  finest  house  for  forty  miles. 
That  used  to  be  Sallie's  room,  where  you  are  now. 

[90] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Many  's  the  time  in  the  old  days  that  I  'ye  rid  up  here 
to  make  eyes  at  Sallie,  but  the  old  lady  would  n't 
stand  for  no  sich  foolishness.  Old  Winship  married 
her  back  in  St.  Louie  and  brought  her  out  here  to 
slave  around  cookin'  for  roder  hands,  and  she  wanted 
her  daughters  to  live  different.  Nope,  she  did  n't 
want  no  bowlegged  cow-punch  for  a  son-in-law,  and  I 
don't  blame  her  none,  because  this  ain't  no  place  for  a 
woman;  but  Sal  was  a  mighty  fine  girl,  all  the  same." 

He  shook  a  little  flour  over  his  dough,  brushed  the 
cat  off  the  table  absently,  and  began  pinching  biscuits 
into  the  sizzling  fat  of  the  Dutch  oven,  which  smoked 
over  its  bed  of  coals  on  the  hearth.  Then,  hooking  the 
redhot  cover  off  the  fire,  he  slapped  it  on  and  piled 
a  little  row  of  coals  along  the  upturned  rim. 

"Did  n't  you  never  hear  about  the  Winship  girls?" 
he  asked,  stroking  the  cat  with  his  floury  hands. 
"No?  Well,  it  was  on  account  of  them  that  the  judge 
took  over  this  ranch.  Old  man  Winship  was  one  of 
these  old-time  Indian-fightin',  poker-playin'  sports 
that  come  pretty  nigh  havin'  their  own  way  about 
everythin'.  He  had  a  fine  ranch  up  here — the  old  Dos 
S  used  to  brand  a  thousand  calves  and  more,  every 
round-up ;  but  when  he  got  old  he  kinder  speculated  in 
mines  and  loaned  money,  and  got  in  the  hole  gen- 
erally, and  about  the  time  the  sheep  drifted  in  on  him 
he  hauled  off  and  died.  I  pulled  off  a  big  roder  for 

[91] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

*em  and  they  sold  a  lot  of  cattle  tryin'  to  patch 
things  up  the  best  they  could,  but  jest  as  every- 
thin'  was  lovely  the  drouth  struck  'em  all  in  a 
lieap,  and  when  the  Widde'  Winship  got  the  estate 
.settled  up  she  didn't  have  nothin'  much  left  but 
cows  and  good  will.  She  could  n't  sell  the  cows — you 
never  can,  right  after  these  dry  spells — and  as  I  said, 
she  would  n't  let  the  girls  marry  any  of  us  cowmen 
to  kinder  be  man  for  the  outfit;  so  what  does  she  do 
but  run  the  ranch  herself! 

"Yes,  sir — Susie  and  Sallie,  that  was  as  nice  and 
eddicated  girls  as  you  ever  see,  they  jest  put  on 
overalls  and  climbed  their  horses  and  worked  them 
cattle  themselves.  Course  they  had  roder  hands  to 
do  the  dirty  work  in  the  corrals — brandin'  and  ear- 
markin'  and  the  like — but  for  ridin'  the  range  and 
drivin'  they  was  as  good  as  the  best.  Well,  sir,  you  'd 
think  every  man  in  Arizona,  when  he  heard  what  they 
was  doin',  would  do  everythin'  in  his  power  to  help 
'em  along,  even  to  runnin'  a  Dos  S  on  an  orelianna 
once  in  a  while  instead  of  hoggin'  it  himself ;  but  they  's 
fellers  in  this  world,  I  'm  convinced,  that  would  steal 
milk  from  a  sick  baby !" 

The  brawny  foreman  of  the  Dos  S  dropped  the  cat 
and  threw  out  his  hands  impressively,  and  once  more 
the  wild  glow  crept  back  into  his  eyes. 

"You  remember  that  Jim  Swope  that  I  introduced 

[92] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

you  to  down  on  the  desert?  Well,  he  's  a  good  sheep- 
man, but  he  's  on  the  grab  for  money  like  a  wolf. 
He  's  got  it,  too— that 's  the  hell  of  it." 

Creede  sighed,  and  threw  a  scrap  of  bacon  to 
Tommy. 

"He  keeps  a  big  store  down  at  Moroni,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  the  widde',  not  wantin'  to  shove  her  cows 
onto  a  f  allin'  market,  runs  up  an  account  with  him — 
somethin'  like  a  thousand  dollars — givin'  her  note  for 
it,  of  course.  It 's  about  four  years  ago,  now,  that 
she  happened  to  be  down  in  Moroni  when  court  was 
in  session,  when  she  finds  out  by  accident  that  this 
same  Jim  Swope,  seein'  that  cattle  was  about  to  go 
up,  is  goin'  to  close  her  out.  He  'd  'a'  done  it,  too, 
like  f  allin'  off  a  log,  if  the  old  judge  hadn't  hap- 
pened to  be  in  town  lookin'  up  some  lawsuit. 
When  he  heard  about  it  he  was  so  durned  mad  he 
wrote  out  a  check  for  a  thousand  dollars  and  give  it 
to  her;  and  then,  when  she  told  him  all  her  troubles, 
he  up  and  bought  the  whole  ranch  at  her  own  price — 
it  was  n't  much — and  shipped  her  and  the  girls  back  to 
St.  Louie." 

Creede  brushed  the  dirt  and  flour  off  the  table  with 
a  greasy  rag  and  dumped  the  biscuits  out  of  the  oven. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  where  I  lost  my  last 
chanst  to  git  a  girl.  Come  on  and  eat." 


[93] 


CHAPTER 

THE   CROSSING 

T^ROM  lonely  ranches  along  the  Salagua  and 
Verde,  from  the  Sunflower  and  up  the  Alamo, 
from  all  the  sheeped-out  and  desolate  Four  Peaks 
country  the  cowboys  drifted  in  to  Hidden  Water  for 
the  round-up,  driving  their  extra  mounts  before  them. 
Beneath  the  brush  ramada  of  the  ranch  house  they 
threw  off  their  canvas-covered  beds  and  turned  their 
pack  horses  out  to  roll,  strapping  bells  and  hobbles  on 
the  bad  ones,  and  in  a  day  the  deserted  valley  of  Agua 
Escondida  became  alive  with  great  preparations. 
A  posse  of  men  on  fresh  mounts  rode  out  on  Bronco 
Mesa,  following  with  unerring  instinct  the  trail  of  the 
Dos  S  horses,  balking  their  wild  breaks  for  freedom 
and  rushing  them  headlong  into  the  fenced  pasture 
across  the  creek.  As  the  hired  hands  of  the  Dos  S 
outfit  caught  up  their  mounts  and  endeavored  to  put 
the  fear  of  God  into  their  hearts,'  the  mountain  boys 
got  out  the  keg  of  horseshoes  and  began  to  shoe — 
every  man  his  own  blacksmith. 

It  was  rough  work,  all  around,  whether  blinding 
and  topping  off  the  half- wild  ponies  or  throwing  them 

[94] 


THE     CROSSING 

and  tacking  cold-wrought  "cowboy"  shoes  to  their 
flintlike  feet,  and  more  than  one  enthusiast  came 
away  limping  or  picking  the  loose  skin  from  a 
bruised  hand.  ,Yet  through  it  all  the  dominant  note 
of  dare-devil  hilarity  never  failed.  The  solitude  of 
the  ranch,  long  endured,  had  left  its  ugly  mark 
on  all  of  them.  They  were  starved  for  company 
and  excitement;  obsessed  by  strange  ideas  which 
they  had  evolved  out  of  the  tumuli  of  their  past 
experience  and  clung  to  with  dogged  tenacity;  warped 
with  egotism;  stubborn,  boastful,  or  silent,  as  their 
humor  took  them,  but  now  all  eager  to  break  the 
shell  and  mingle  in  the  rush  of  life. 

In  this  riot  of  individuals  Jefferson  Creede,  the 
round-up  boss,  strode  about  like  a  king,  untrammelled 
and  unafraid.  There  was  not  a  ridge  or  valley  in 
all  the  Four  Peaks  country  that  he  did  not  know, 
yet  it  was  not  for  this  that  he  was  boss;  there  was 
not  a  virtue  or  weakness  in  all  that  crowd  that  he 
was  not  cognizant  of,  in  the  back  of  his  scheming 
brain.  The  men  that  could  rope,  the  men  that  could 
ride,  the  quitters,  the  blowhards,  the  rattleheads,  the 
lazy,  the  crooked,  the  slow-witted — all  were  on  his 
map  of  the  country ;  and  as,  when  he  rode  the  ridges, 
he  memorized  each  gulch  and  tree  and  odd  rock,  so 
about  camp  he  tried  out  his  puppets,  one  by  one,  to 
keep  his  map  complete. 

[95] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

As  they  gathered  about  the  fire  that  evening  it 
was  Bill  Lightfoot  who  engaged  his  portentous  in- 
terest. He  listened  to  Bill's  boastful  remarks 
critically,  cocking  his  head  to  one  side  and  smiling 
whenever  he  mentioned  his  horse. 

"Yes,  sir,"  asserted  Bill  belligerently,  "I  mean  it 
— that  gray  of  mine  can  skin  anything  in  the  country, 
for  a  hundred  yards  or  a  mile.  I  Ve  got  money  that 
says  so!" 

"Aw,  bull!"  exclaimed  Creede  scornfully. 

"Bull,  nothin',"  retorted  Lightfoot  hotly.  "I  bet 
ye — I  bet  ye  a  thousand  dollars  they  ain't  a  horse  in 
Arizona  that  can  keep  out  of  my  dust  for  a  quarter !" 

"Well,  I  know  you  ain't  got  no  thousand  dollars 
— ner  ten,"  sneered  Creede.  "Why  don't  you  bet 
yearlings?  If  you'd  blow  some  of  that  hot  air 
through  a  tube  it  'd  melt  rocks,  I  reckon.  But  talk 
cow,  man;  we  can  all  savvy  that!" 

"Well,  where 's  the  horse  that  can  beat  me?"  de- 
manded Lightfoot,  bristling. 

"That  little  sorrel  out  in  the  pasture,"  answered 
Creede  laconically. 

"I'll  bet  ye!"  blustered  Lightfoot.  "Aw,  rats! 
He  ain't  even  broke  yet!" 

"He  can  run,  all  right.  I  '11  go  you  for  a  yearling 
heifer.  Put  up  or  shut  up." 

[96] 


THE     CROSSING 

And  so  the  race  was  run.  Early  in  the  morning 
the  whole  rodeo  outfit  adjourned  to  the  parada 
ground  out  by  the  pole  corrals,  the  open  spot  where 
they  work  over  the  cattle.  Hardy  danced  his  sorrel 
up  to  the  line  where  the  gray  was  waiting,  there  was 
a  scamper  of  feet,  a  streak  of  dust,  and  Bill  Light- 
foot  was  out  one  yearling  heifer.  A  howling  mob  of 
cowboys  pursued  them  from  the  scratch,  racing  each 
other  to  the  finish,  and  then  in  a  yell  of  laughter  at 
Bill  Lightfoot  they  capered  up  the  canon  and  spread 
out  over  The  Rolls — the  rodeo  had  begun. 

As  the  shadow  of  the  great  red  butte  to  the  west, 
around  which  the  wagon  road  toiled  for  so  many 
weary  miles,  reached  out  and  touched  the  valley, 
they  came  back  in  a  body,  hustling  a  bunch  of  cattle 
along  before  them.  And  such  cattle !  After  his  year 
with  the  Chiricahua  outfit  in  that  blessed  eastern 
valley  where  no  sheep  as  yet  had  ever  strayed  Hardy 
was  startled  by  their  appearance.  Gaunt,  rough, 
stunted,  with  sharp  hips  and  hollow  flanks  and  bellies 
swollen  from  eating  the  unprofitable  browse  of  cactus 
and  bitter  shrubs,  they  nevertheless  sprinted  along 
on  their  wiry  legs  like  mountain  bucks ;  and  a  peculiar 
wild,  haggard  stare,  stamped  upon  the  faces  of  the 
old  cows,  showed  its  replica  even  in  the  twos  and  year- 
lings. Yet  he  forbore  to  ask  Creede  the  question 
*  [97] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

which  arose  involuntarily  to  his  lips,  for  he  knew  the 
inevitable  answer. 

Day  after  day,  as  they  hurriedly  combed  The 
Rolls  for  what  few  cattle  remained  on  the  lower 
range,  the  cowmen  turned  their  eyes  to  the  river  and 
to  the  canons  and  towering  cliffs  beyond,  for  the 
sheep;  until  at  last  as  they  sat  by  the  evening  fire 
Creede  pointed  silently  to  the  lambent  flame  of  a 
camp  fire,  glowing  like  a  torch  against  the  southern 
sky. 

"There  's  your  friends,  Rufe,"  he  said,  and  the 
cowmen  glanced  at  Hardy  inquiringly. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you  fellers,"  Creede  con- 
tinued, "that  one  reason  Rufe  come  up  here  was  to 
see  if  he  could  n't  do  somethin'  with  these  sheepmen." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  the  circle  of  faces  with 
a  smile  that  was  almost  a  sneer. 

"You  fellers  wouldn't  back  me  up  when  it  come 
to  fightin' — none  except  Ben  Reavis  and  the  Clark 
boys — so  I  told  the  old  judge  we  might  as  well  lay. 
down,  and  to  send  up  some  smooth  hombre  to  try 
and  jockey  'em  a  little.  Well,  Hardy  's  the  hombre; 
and  bein'  as  you  fellers  won't  fight,  you  might  as 
well  look  pleasant  about  it.  What 's  that  you  say, 
Bill?" 

He  turned  with  a  sardonic  grin  to  Lightfoot,  who 

[98] 


THE     CROSSING 

had  already  been  reduced  to  a  state  of  silence  by  the 
relentless  persecutions  of  the  rodeo  boss. 

"I  never  said  nawthin',"  replied  Lightfoot  sul- 
lenly. "But  if  you  'd  Ve  gone  at  'em  the  way  we 
wanted  to,"  he  blurted  out,  as  the  grin  broadened, 
"instead  of  tryin'  to  move  the  whole  outfit  by  day- 
light, I  'd  Ve  stayed  with  you  till  hell  froze  over.  I 
don't  want  to  git  sent  up  fer  ten  years." 

"No,"  said  Creede  coolly,  "ner  you  never  will." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  you  're  pickin'  on  me  fer," 
bellowed  Lightfoot,  "the  other  fellers  was  there  too. 
Why  don't  you  sass  Ensign  or  Pete  a  while?" 

"For  a  durned  good  reason,"  replied  Creede 
steadily.  "They  never  was  for  fightin',  but  you, 
with  that  yawp  of  yours,  was  always  a-hollerin'  and 
ribbin'  me  on  to  fight,  and  then,  when  the  time  come, 
you  never  said  'Boo!'  at  'em.  Tucked  your  young 
cannon  into  the  seat  of  your  pants  and  flew,  dam' 
ye,  and  that 's  all  there  was  to  it.  But  that 's  all 
right,"  he  added  resignedly.  "If  you  fellers  don't 
want  to  fight  you  don't  have  to.  But,  dam'  it,  keep 
shut  about  it  now,  until  you  mean  business." 

As  to  just  who  this  man  Hardy  was  and  what  he 
proposed  to  do  with  the  sheep  the  members  of  the 
Four  Peaks  round-up  were  still  in  ignorance.  All 
they  knew  was  that  he  could  ride,  even  when  it  came 

[99] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

to  drifting  his  horse  over  the  rocky  ridges,  and  that 
Jeff  Creede  took  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  But, 
for  a  superintendent,  he  never  seemed  to  have  much 
to  say  for  himself.  It  was  only  when  he  walked 
up  to  his  sorrel  pony  in  that  gentle,  precise  way  he 
had,  and  went  through  the  familiar  motions  of  climb- 
ing a  "bad  one"  that  they  sensed,  dimly,  a  past  not 
without  experience  and  excitement.  Even  in  the 
preoccupation  of  their  own  affairs  and  doings  they 
could  not  fail  to  notice  a  supple  strength  in  his  white 
hands,  a  military  precision  in  his  movements,  and 
above  all  a  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  became  excited — 
the  steady  resolute  stare  with  which  his  militant  father 
had  subdued  outlaw  horses,  buck  soldiers,  and 
Apaches,  even  his  own  son,  when  all  had  not  gone  well. 
It  was  this  which  had  inspired  Bill  Lightfoot  to 
restrain  his  tongue  when  he  was  sore  over  his  de- 
feat; and  even  though  Hardy  confessed  to  being  a 
rider,  somehow  no  one  ever  thought  of  sawing  off 
Spike  Kennedy's  "side  winder"  on  him.  The  quiet, 
brooding  reserve  which  came  from  his  soldier  life 
protected  him  from  such  familiar  jests,  and  without 
knowing  why,  the  men  of  the  Four  Peaks  looked 
up  to  him. 

Even  after  his  mission  was  announced,  Hardy 
made  no  change  in  his  manner  of  life.  He  rode  out 
each  day  on  the  round-up,  conning  the  lay  of  the 

[100] 


THE     CROSSING 

land;  at  the  corral  he  sat  on  the  fence  and  .kept  tally, 
frankly  admitting  that  he  copjd  neither  rope  nor 
brand ;  in  camp  he  did  his  share  </£  .the  copkiiig.  and 
said  little,  listening  attentively  to  the  random  talk. 
Only  when  sheep  were  mentioned  did  he  show  a 
marked  interest,  and  even  then  it  was  noticed  that  he 
made  no  comment,  whatever  his  thoughts  were. 
But  if  he  told  no  one  what  he  was  going  to  do,  it 
was  not  entirely  due  to  an  overrated  reticence,  for  he 
did  not  know  himself.  Not  a  man  there  but  had  run 
the  gamut  of  human  emotions  in  trying  to  protect  his 
ranch;  they  had  driven  herders  off  with  guns;  they 
had  cut  their  huddled  bands  at  night  and  scattered 
them  for  the  coyotes ;  they  had  caught  unwary  Mexi- 
can borregueros  in  forbidden  pastures  and  adminis- 
tered "shap  lessons,"  stretching  them  over  bowlders 
and  spanking  them  with  their  leather  leggings;  they 
had  "talked  reason"  to  the  bosses  in  forceful  terms; 
they  had  requested  them  politely  to  move;  they  had 
implored  them  with  tears  in  their  eyes — and  still  like 
a  wave  of  the  sea,  like  a  wind,  like  a  scourge  of  grass- 
hoppers which  cannot  be  withstood,  the  sheep  had 
come  on,  always  hungry,  always  fat,  always  more. 
Nor  was  there  any  new  thing  in  hospitality.  The  last 
bacon  and  bread  had  been  set  upon  the  table;  baled 
hay  and  grain,  hauled  in  by  day's  works  from  the 
alfalfa  fields  of  Moroni  and  the  Salagua,  had  been 

[101] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

fed  to  the  famished  horses  of  the  very  men  who  had 
sheeped  oft  'the  grass;  the  same  blanket  had  been 
{sha^edysometixryesyalas,  with  men  who  were  "crumby." 
And  it  was  equally  true  that,  in  return,  the  beans  and 
meat  of  chance  herders  had  been  as  ravenously  de- 
voured, the  water  casks  of  patient  "camp-rustlers" 
had  been  drained  midway  between  the  river  and  camp, 
and  stray  wethers  had  showed  up  in  the  round-up 
fry-pans  in  the  shape  of  mutton.  Ponder  as  he  would 
upon  the  problem  no  solution  offered  itself  to  Hardy. 
He  had  no  policy,  even,  beyond  that  of  common  polite- 
ness ;  and  as  the  menacing  clamor  of  the  sheep  drifted 
up  to  them  from  the  river  the  diplomat  who  was  to 
negotiate  the  great  truce  began  to  wonder  whether, 
after  all,  he  was  the  man  of  the  hour  or  merely  an- 
other college  graduate  gone  wrong. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  in  bands  of  two 
and  three  thousand  the  cohorts  of  the  sheep  gathered 
to  make  the  crossing — gathered  and  waited,  for  the 
Salagua  was  still  high.  At  the  foot  of  the  high  cliffs, 
from  the  cleft  canon  of  which  water  flowed  forth 
as  if  some  rod  had  called  it  from  the  rock,  the  leaders 
of  the  sheepmen  were  sitting  in  council,  gazing  at 
the  powerful  sweep  of  the  level  river,  and  then  at  the 
distant  sand  bar  where  their  charges  must  win  the 
shore  or  be  swept  into  the  whirlpool  below.  Ah, 
that  whirlpool!  Many  a  frightened  ewe  and  weak- 

[102] 


THE     CROSSING 

ling  lamb  in  years  past  had  drifted  helplessly  into 
its  swirl  and  been  sucked  down,  to  come  up  below 
the  point  a  water-logged  carcass.  And  for  each 
stinking  corpse  that  littered  the  lower  bar  the  boss 
sheep  owner  subtracted  five  dollars  from  the  sum 
of  his  hard-earned  wealth.  Already  on  the  flats  be- 
low them  the  willows  and  burro  bushes  were  trembling 
as  eager  teeth  trimmed  them  of  their  leaves — in  a 
day,  or  two  days,  the  river  bottom  would  be  fed 
bare;  and  behind  and  behind,  clear  to  the  broad  floor 
of  the  desert,  band  after  band  was  pressing  on  to 
the  upper  crossing  of  the  Salagua. 

As  Hardy  rode  up  over  the  rocky  point  against 
which  the  river  threw  its  full  strength  and  then,  flung 
inexorably  back,  turned  upon  itself  in  a  sullen 
whirlpool,  he  could  see  the  sheep  among  the  willows, 
the  herders  standing  impassive,  leaning  upon  their 
guns  as  more  rustic  shepherds  lean  upon  their  staves, 
and  above,  at  the  head  of  the  crossing,  the  group  of 
men,  sitting  within  the  circle  of  their  horses  in  anx- 
ious conference.  If  any  of  them  saw  him,  outlined 
like  a  sentinel  against  the  sky,  they  made  no  sign; 
but  suddenly  a  man  in  a  high  Texas  hat  leaped  up 
from  the  group,  sprang  astride  his  mule  and  spurred 
him  into  the  cold  water.  For  the  first  twenty  feet 
the  mule  waded,  shaking  his  ears ;  then  he  slumped  off 
the  edge  of  a  submerged  bench  into  deeper  water  and 

[103] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

swam,  heading  across  the  stream  but  drifting  diag- 
onally with  the  current  until,  striking  bottom 
once  more,  he  struggled  out  upon  the  sand  spit.  The 
rider  looked  eagerly  about,  glanced  up  casually  at 
the  man  on  the  point  below,  and  then  plunged  bacK 
into  the  water,  shouting  out  hoarse  orders  to  his  Mexi- 
cans, who  were  smoking  idly  in  the  shade  of  over- 
hanging rocks.  Immediately  they  scrambled  to  their 
feet  and  scattered  along  the  hillside.  The  stroke  of 
axes  echoed  from  the  crags  above,  and  soon  men  came 
staggering  down  to  the  river,  dragging  the  thorny 
limbs  of  palo  verdes  behind  them.  With  these  they 
quickly  constructed  a  brush  fence  in  the  form  of  a 
wing,  running  parallel  to  the  cliff  and  making  a  chute 
which  opened  into  the  river. 

Then  with  a  great  braying  and  bleating  a  huddle 
of  sheep  moved  unwillingly  along  it,  led  by  bold 
goats  with  crooked  horns  and  resolute  beards,  and 
pushed  forward  by  that  same  reckless  rider  on  his 
black  mule,  assisted  by  a  horde  of  shouting  Mexi- 
cans. But  at  the  touch  of  the  cold  water,  two  days 
from  the  snow  beds  of  the  White  Mountains,  even  the 
hardy  bucks  stepped  back  and  shook  their  heads  de- 
fiantly. In  vain  with  showers  of  rocks  and  flapping 
tarpaulins  the  herders  stormed  the  rear  of  the  press — 
every  foot  was  set  against  them  and  the  sheep  only 
rushed  about  along  the  edge  of  the  herd  or  crowded 

[104] 


THE    CROSSING 

in  close-wedged  masses  against  the  bluff.  At  last 
a  line  of  men  leaped  into  the  enclosure,  holding  up 
a  long  canvas  wagon-cover  and,  encircling  the  first 
section  of  the  leaders,  shoved  them  by  main  force  into 
the  river. 

Instantly  the  goats  tooK  water,  swimming  free, 
and  below  them  the  man  on  the  black  mule  shouted 
and  waved  his  broad  Texas  hat,  heading  them  across 
the  stream.  But  the  timid  sheep  turned  back  behind 
him,  landing  below  the  fence  against  all  opposition, 
and  the  babel  of  their  braying  rose  higher  and  higher, 
as  if  in  protest  against  their  unlucky  fate.  Again 
and  again  the  herders,  stripped  to  their  underclothes, 
pushed  the  unwilling  sheep  into  the  current,  wading 
out  to  their  chins  to  keep  them  headed  across;  each 
time  the  sodden  creatures  evaded  them  and,  drifting 
with  the  current,  landed  far  below  on  the  same  side, 
whence  they  rushed  back  to  join  their  fellows. 

Upon  the  opposite  shore  the  goats  stood  shivering, 
watching  the  struggle  with  yellow,  staring  eyes  which 
showed  no  trace  of  fear.  Like  brave  generals  of 
a  craven  band  they  were  alone  in  their  hardihood  and, 
with  their  feet  upon  the  promised  land,  were  doomed 
either  to  proceed  alone  or  return  to  their  companions. 
So  at  last  they  did,  plunging  in  suddenly,  while  the 
man  on  the  mule  spurred  in  below  in  a  vain  effort  to 
turn  them  back. 

[105] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

That  night  by  the  camp  fire  Hardy  mentioned  the 
man  on  a  black  mule. 

"My  old  friend,  Jasp  Swope,"  explained  Creede 
suavely,  "brother  of  Jim,  the  feller  I  introduced  you 
to.  Sure,  Jasp  and  I  have  had  lo-ong  talks  together 
— but  he  don't  like  me  any  more."  He  twisted  his 
nose  and  made  a  face,  as  if  to  intimate  that  it  was 
merely  a  childish  squabble,  and  Hardy  said  no  more. 
He  was  growing  wise. 

The  next  morning,  and  the  next,  Jasper  Swope 
made  other  attempts  at  the  crossing;  and  then,  as 
the  snow  water  from  the  high  mountains  slipped 
by  and  the  warm  weather  dried  up  by  so  much  each 
little  stream,  he  was  able  at  last  to  ford  the  dimin- 
ished river.  But  first,  with  that  indomitable  energy 
which  marked  him  at  every  move,  he  cleared  a  passage 
along  the  base  of  the  cliff  to  a  place  where  the  earth- 
covered  moraine  broke  off  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 
Here  a  broad  ledge  shot  down  to  the  river  like  a 
toboggan  slide,  with  a  six-foot  jump  off  at  the 
bottom. 

Once  on  this  chute,  with  the  strong  tug  of  the 
canvas  wagon-covers  behind,  there  was  nothing  for 
the  sheep  to  do  but  to  take  the  plunge,  and  as  his 
brawny  herders  tumbled  them  head  over  heels  into 
the  deep  current  Swope  and  his  helpers  waded  out 
in  a  line  below,  shunting  each  ewe  and  wether  toward 

[106] 


THE     CROSSING 

the  farther  shore.  There  on  the  edge  of  the  sand 
spit  they  huddled  in  a  bunch,  gathering  about  the 
hardier  bucks  and  serving  as  a  lure  for  those  that 
followed.  As  cut  after  cut  was  forced  into  the  stream 
a  long  row  of  bobbing  heads  stretched  clear  across  the 
river,  each  animal  striving  desperately  to  gain  the 
opposite  bank  and  landing,  spent  and  puffing,  far 
below.  A  Mexican  boy  at  intervals  drove  these  strays 
up  the  shore  to  the  big  bunch  and  then  concealed 
himself  in  the  bushes  lest  by  his  presence  he  turn  some 
timid  swimmer  back  and  the  whirlpool  increase  its 
toll.  So  they  crossed  them  in  two  herds,  the  wethers 
first,  and  then  the  ewes  and  lambs — and  all  the  little 
lambs  that  could  not  stem  the  stream  were  floated 
across  in  broad  pieces  of  tarpaulin  whose  edges  were 
held  up  by  wading  men. 

From  Lookout  Point  it  was  a  majestic  spectacle, 
the  high  cliffs,  the  silvery  river  gliding  noiselessly 
out  from  its  black  canon,  the  white  masses  of  sheep, 
clustering  on  either  side  of  the  water — and  as  the 
work  went  ahead  merrily  the  Mexicans,  their  naked 
bodies  gleaming  like  polished  bronze  in  the  ardent 
sun,  broke  into  a  wild  refrain,  a  love  song,  perhaps, 
or  a  cancion  of  old  Mexico.  Working  side  by  side 
with  his  men  Jasper  Swope  joined  in  the  song  himself, 
and  as  they  returned  empty-handed  he  seized  the 
tallest  and  strongest  of  them  and  ducked  him  in  the 

[107] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

water  while  his  retainers  roared  with  laughter.  And 
Hardy,  sitting  unnoticed  upon  his  horse,  began  to 
understand  why  these  low-browed  barbarians  from 
Mexico  were  willing  to  fight,  and  if  need  be  to 
die,  for  their  masters.  The  age  of  feudalism  had 
returned — the  lords  of  the  sheep  went  forth  like  bar- 
ons, sharing  every  hardship  and  leading  the  way  in 
danger,  and  their  men  followed  with  the  same  un- 
thinking devotion  that  the  Myrmidons  showed  for 
noble  Achilles  or  the  Crusaders  for  their  white-crossed 
knights, 

Upon  this  and  many  other  feats  Hardy  had  ample 
leisure  to  meditate,  for  the  sheepmen  regarded  him 
no  more  than  if  he  had  been  a  monument  placed  high 
upon  the  point  to  give  witness  to  their  victory.  As 
the  sheep  crossed  they  were  even  allowed  to  straggle 
.out  along  the  slopes  of  the  forbidden  mesa,  untended 
by  their  shepherds;  and  if  the  upper  range  was  the 
special  reserve  of  the  cowmen  the  sheep  owners  showed 
no  knowledge  of  the  fact.  For  two  days  the  grazing 
herd  crept  slowly  along  the  mesquite-covered  flat  to- 
ward Lookout  Point,  and  on  the  third  morning  they 
boiled  up  over  the  rocks  and  spewed  down  into  the 
valley  of  the  Alamo. 

"Well,"  observed  Creede,  as  he  watched  the  slow 
creeping  of  the  flock,  "here  's  where  I  have  to  quit 
you,  Rufe.  In  a  week  this  ground  around  here  will 

[108] 


THE     CROSSING 

be  as  level  as  a  billiard  table  and  they  won't  be 
enough  horse  feed  in  the  valley  to  keep  a  burro. 
The  town  herd  pulls  out  for  Bender  this  mornin'  and 
the  rest  of  us  will  move  up  to  Carrizo  Creek." 

He  hurried  away  to  oversee  the  packing,  but  when 
all  was  ready  he  waved  the  boys  ahead  and  returned 
to  the  conversation. 

"As  I  was  sayin'  a  while  ago,  you  won't  see  nothin' 
but  sheep  around  here  now  for  the  next  two  weeks 
— and  all  I  want  to  say  is,  keep  'em  out  of  the  pasture, 
and  f 'r  God's  sake  don't  let  'em  corral  in  the  brandin' 
pens !  They  're  dirty  enough  already,  but  if  you  git 
about  six  inches  of  sheep  manure  in  there  and  then 
mill  a  few  hundred  head  of  cattle  around  on  top 
of  it,  the  dust  would  choke  a  skunk.  Our  cows  ain't 
so  over-particular  about  that  sheep  smell,  but  if 
we  poor  cowboys  has  got  to  breathe  sheep  and  eat 
sheep  and  spit  up  sheep  every  time  we  brand,  it 's 
crowdin'  hospitality  pretty  strong.  But  if  they  want 
grub  or  clothes  or  tabac,  go  to  it — and  see  if  you  can't 
keep  'em  off  the  upper  range." 

He  paused  and  gazed  at  Hardy  with  eyes  which 
suggested  a  world  of  advice  and  warning — then, 
leaving  it  all  unsaid,  he  turned  wearily  away. 

"I  look  to  find  you  with  a  sprained  wrist,"  he 
drawled,  "when  I  come  back — thro  win'  flapjacks  for 
them  sheepmen  1"  He  made  the  quick  motion  of  turn- 

[109] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ing  a  pancake  in  midair,  smiled  grimly,  and  galloped 
after  the  long  line  of  horses  and  packs  that  was 
stringing  along  up  the  Bronco  Mesa  trail.  And, 
having  a  premonition  of  coming  company,  Hardy 
went  in  by  the  fireplace  and  put  on  a  big  kettle  of  beef. 
He  was  picking  over  another  mess  of  beans  when  he 
heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  outside  and  the  next  moment 
the  door  was  kicked  violently  open. 

It  was  Jasper  Swope  who  stood  on  the  threshold, 
his  high  Texas  hat  thrust  far  back  upon  his  head — 
and  if  he  felt  any  surprise  at  finding  the  house  occu- 
pied he  gave  no  expression  to  it. 

"Hello,  there!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  you 
folks  was  all  gone!" 

"Nope,"  replied  Hardy,  and  continued  his  work  in 
silence. 

"Cookin'  for  the  outfit?"  queried  Swope,  edging  in 
at  the  door. 

"Nope,"  replied  Hardy. 

"Well,  who  the  hell  air  ye  cookin'  fer  then?"  de- 
manded Swope,  drawing  nearer.  "  'Scuse  me  if  I 
pry  into  this  matter,  but  I  'm  gittin'  interested." 
He  paused  and  showed  a  jagged  set  of  teeth  beneath 
his  bristling  red  mustache,  sneeringly. 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  answered  Hardy  easily. 
"I  thought  some  white  man  might  come  along  later 
and  I  'd  ask  him  to  dinner."  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon 

[no] 


THE     CROSSING 

the  sheepman  with  an  instant's  disapproval  and  then 
resumed  his  cookery.  As  for  Swope,  his  gray  eyes 
flashed  sudden  fire  from  beneath  bushy  eyebrows,  and 
then  a  canny  smile  crept  across  his  lips. 

"I  used  to  be  a  white  man,  myself,"  he  said,  "be- 
fore I  lost  my  soap.  What 's  the  chance  to  git  a 
bite  of  that  bymeby?"  He  threw  his  hand  out  to- 
ward the  pot  of  beef,  which  was  sending  out  odors 
of  a  rich  broth,  flavored  with  onions  and  chili. 

Hardy  looked  at  him  again,  little  shrimp  of  a  man 
that  he  was,  and  still  with  disapproval. 

"D'  ye  call  that  a  white  man's  way  of  entering  an- 
other man's  house?"  he  inquired  pointedly. 

"Well,"  temporized  Swope,  and  then  he  stopped. 
"A  man  in  my  line  of  business  gits  in  a  hurry  once 
in  a  while,"  he  said  lamely.  "But  I  'm  hungry,  all 
right,"  he  remarked,  sotto  voce. 

"Yes,"  said  Hardy,  "I  Ve  noticed  it.  But  here — 
sit  down  and  eat." 

The  sheepman  accepted  the  dish  of  beef,  dipped 
out  a  spoonful  of  beans,  broke  off  a  slab  of  bread,  and 
began  his  meal  forthwith,  meanwhile  looking  at 
Hardy  curiously. 

"What's  that  you  say  you've  noticed?"  he  in- 
quired, and  a  quizzical  smile  lurked  beneath  his  drip- 
ping mustache  as  he  reached  over  and  hefted  the 
coffeepot. 

[ill] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"I  Ve  noticed,"  replied  Hardy,  "that  you  sheep- 
men get  in  a  hurry  once  in  a  while.  You  can't  stop 
to  knock  on  a  door  so  you  kick  it  open;  can't  stop 
to  go  around  a  ranch,  so  you  go  through  it,  and  so 


on." 


"Ah,"  observed  Swope  slyly,  "so  that 's  what 's 
bitin'  you,  eh?  I  reckon  you  must  be  that  new  super- 
intendent that  Jim  was  tellin'  about." 

"That 's  right,"  admitted  Hardy,  "and  you  're  Mr. 
Swope,  of  course.  Well,  I  '11  say  this  for  you,  Mr. 
Swope,  you  certainly  know  how  to  get  sheep  across 
a  river.  But  when  it  comes  to  getting  along  with 
cowmen,"  he  added,  as  the  sheepman  grinned  his 
self -approval,  "y°u  don't  seem  to  stack  up  very  high." 

"Oh,  I  don't,  hey?"  demanded  Swope  defiantly. 
"Well,  how  about  the  cowmen?  Your  friend  Creede 
gets  along  with  sheepmen  like  a  house  afire,  don't 
he?  Him  and  a  bunch  of  his  punchers  jumped 
on  one  of  my  herders  last  Fall  and  dam'  nigh  beat 
him  to  death.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  sheepman 
jumpin'  on  a  cowboy?  ISTo,  by  Gad,  and  you  never 
will!  We  carry  arms  to  protect  ourselves,  but  we 
never  make  no  trouble." 

He  paused  and  combed  the  coffee  grounds  out  of 
his  heavy  red  mustache  with  fingers  that  were 
hooked  like  an  eagle's  talons  from  clutching  at  sheep 
in  the  cold  water. 

[112] 


THE     CROSSING 

"I  don't  doubt,  Mr.  Superintendent,"  he  said,  with 
sinister  directness,  "that  these  cowmen  have  filled 
you  up  about  what  bad  hombres  we  are — and  of 
course  it  ain't  no  use  to  say  nothin'  now — but  I  jest 
want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  and  I  want  you  to  re- 
member it  if  any  trouble  should  come  up;  we  sheep 
men  have  never  gone  beyond  our  legal  rights,  and 
we  Ve  got  the  law  behind  us.  The  laws  of  the  United 
States  and  the  statutes  of  this  Territory  guarantee 
us  the  right  to  graze  our  sheep  on  public  lands  and 
to  go  where  we  dam'  please — and  we  '11  go,  too,  you 
can  bank  on  that." 

He  added  this  last  with  an  assurance  which  left 
no  doubt  as  to  his  intentions,  and  Hardy  made  no 
reply.  His  whole  mind  seemed  centred  on  a  hand- 
ful of  beans  from  which  he  was  picking  out  the  rocks 
and  little  lumps  of  clay  which  help  to  make  up  full 
weight. 

"Well!"  challenged  Swope,  after  waiting  for  his 
answer,  "ain't  that  straight?" 

"Sure,"  said  Hardy  absently. 

Swope  glared  at  him  for  a  moment  disapprovingly. 

"Huh,  you  're  a  hell  of  a  cowman,"  he  grunted. 
"What  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"About  what?"  inquired  Hardy  innocently. 

"Aw,  you  know,"  replied  Swope  impatiently. 
"How  about  that  upper  range?"  He  shoved  back  his 

8  [113] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

chair  as  he  spoke,  and  his  eyes  lit  up  in  anticipation 
of  the  battle. 

"Well,"  responded  Hardy  judicially,  "if  you  Ve 
got  the  legal  right  to  go  up  there,  and  if  you  're  goin' 
where  you  dam'  please,  anyhow,  it  don't  look  like 
I  could  do  anything."  He  paused  and  smiled  pa- 
tiently at  the  sheepman. 

"You  know  very  well,  Mr.  Swope,"  he  said,  "that 
if  you  want  to  go  up  on  that  mesa  and  sheep  off  the 
feed  we  have  n't  got  any  legal  means  of  preventing 
you.  But  you  know,  too,  that  there  is  n't  more  than 
enough  feed  for  what  cows  the  boys  have  left.  If 
you  want  to  go  up  there,  that 's  your  privilege — 
and  if  you  want  to  go  out  over  The  Rolls,  that 's  all 
right,  too." 

"Of  course  you  don't  give  a  dam'!"  said  Swope 
satirically. 

"I  guess  you  know  how  I  feel,  all  right,"  returned 
Hardy,  and  then  he  lapsed  into  silence,  while  Swope 
picked  his  teeth  and  thought. 

"Where  'd  you  come  from?"  he  said  at  last,  as  if, 
forgetting  all  that  had  passed,  his  mind  had  come  back 
from  a  far  country,  unbiassed  by  the  facts. 

"Over  the  mountains,"  replied  Hardy,  jerking  his 
thumb  toward  the  east. 

"Don't  have  no  sheep  over  there,  do  they?"  in- 
quired Swope. 

[114] 


THE    CROSSING 

"Nope,  nothing  but  cattle  and  horses." 
"Ump!"  grunted  the  sheepman,  and  then,  as  if 
the  matter  was  settled  thereby,  he  said :     "All  right, 
pardner,  bein'  as  you  put  it  that  way,  I  reckon  I  '11 
go  around." 


[115] 


CHAPTER  VII 

HELL'S  HIP  POCKET 

TN  the  days  of  Ahaz,  king  of  Judah,  Isaiah  the 
son  of  Amoz  is  reported  to  have  seen  in  a  vision 
a  wolf  which  dwelt  with  a  lamb,  while  a  lion  ate 
straw  like  an  ox,  and  a  weaned  child  put  his  hand  in 
the  cockatrice's  den.  Equally  beautiful,  as  a  dream, 
was  the  peace  at  Hidden  Water,  where  sheepman 
and  cattleman  sat  down  together  in  amity;  only, 
when  it  was  all  over,  the  wolf  wiped  his  chops  and 
turned  away  with  a  wise  smile — the  millennium  not 
having  come,  as  yet,  in  Arizona. 

Hardy's  wrist  was  a  little  lame,  figuratively  speak- 
ing, from  throwing  flapjacks  for  hungry  sheep  herd- 
ers, and  the  pile  of  grain  and  baled  hay  in  the  store- 
house had  dwindled  materially ;  but  as  the  sheep  came 
through,  band  after  band,  and  each  turned  off  to  the 
west,  stringing  in  long  bleating  columns  out  across 
The  Rolls,  he  did  not  begrudge  the  hard  labor. 
After  Jasper  Swope  came  Jim,  and  Donald  Mc- 
Donald, as  jolly  a  Scottish  shepherd  as  ever  lived, 
and  Bazan,  the  Mexican,  who  traced  his  blood  back 
to  that  victorious  general  whom  Maximilian  sent  into 

[116] 


HELL'S     HIP     POCKET 

Sonora.  There  were  Frenchmen,  smelling  rank  of 
garlic  and  mutton  tallow;  Basques  with  eyes  as  blue 
and  vacant  as  the  summer  skies;  young  Mormons 
working  on  shares,  whose  whole  fortune  was  wrapped 
up  in  the  one  huddle  of  sheep  which  they  corralled  and 
counted  so  carefully;  and  then  the  common  herders, 
fighting  Chihuahuanos,  with  big  round  heads  and 
staring  eyes,  low-browed  Sonorans,  slow  and  brutal 
in  their  ways,  men  of  all  bloods  and  no  blood,  lumped 
together  in  that  careless,  all-embracing  Western  term 
"Mexicans." 

But  though  they  were  low  and  primitive  in  mental 
processes,  nearer  to  their  plodding  burros  than  to  the 
bright-eyed  sensitive  dogs,  they  were  the  best  who 
would  consent  to  wander  with  the  sheep  through  the 
wilderness,  seeing  nothing,  doing  nothing,  knowing 
nothing,  having  before  them  nothing  but  the  vision 
of  a  distant  pay  day,  a  drunk,  the  calabozo,,  and  the 
kind  boss  who  would  surely  bail  them  out.  Ah,  that 
was  it — the  one  love  and  loyalty  of  those  simple- 
minded  creatures  who,  unfit  for  the  hurry  and  com- 
petition of  the  great  world,  sold  their  lives  by  spans  of 
months  for  twenty  dollars  and  found;  it  was  always 
to  the  boss  that  they  looked  for  help,  and  in  return 
they  did  his  will. 

When  the  great  procession  had  drifted  past,  with 
its  braying  clamor,  its  dogs,  its  men  on  muleback  and 

[117] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

9 

afoot,  the  herders  with  their  carbines,  the  camp 
rustlers  with  their  burros,  belled  and  laden  with  water 
casks  and  kyacks  of  grub,  the  sheep  owners  hustling 
about  with  an  energy  that  was  almost  a  mania,  Hardy 
sat  beneath  the  ramada  of  the  ranch  house  with  dog- 
fighting  Tommy  in  his  lap  and  pondered  deeply  upon 
the  spectacle.  A  hundred  thousand  sheep,  drifting 
like  the  shadows  of  clouds  across  the  illimitable  desert, 
crossing  swift  rivers,  climbing  high  mountains, 
grazing  beneath  the  northern  pines ;  and  then  turning 
south  again  and  pouring  down  through  the  passes 
like  the  resistless  front  of  a  cloudburst  which  leaves 
the  earth  bare  and  wasted  in  its  wake.  For  this  one 
time  he  had  turned  the  stream  aside  and  the  tall  grass 
still  waved  upon  the  upper  range;  but  the  next  time, 
or  the  next — what  then? 

Long  and  seriously  he  contemplated  the  matter, 
dwelling  now  upon  the  rough  good  nature  of  the 
sheepmen  and  this  almost  miraculous  demonstration 
of  their  good  will;  then  remembered  with  vague  mis- 
givings their  protestations  against  the  unlawful 
violence  which  presumed  to  deny  them  what  was  their 
legal  right — free  grazing  on  all  government  lands. 
And  in  the  end  he  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Judge  Ware, 
telling  him  that  while  the  sheepmen  had  accepted  his 
hospitality  in  a  most  friendly  spirit  and  had  respected 
the  upper  range,  it  was  in  his  opinion  only  a  question 

["81 


HELL'S     HIP    POCKET 

of  time  until  they  would  take  the  whole  country, 
unless  they  were  restrained  by  law.  He  therefore 
recommended  that  the  judge  look  up  the  status  of  the 
bill  to  set  aside  the  watershed  of  the  Salagua  as  a 
National  Forest  Reserve,  and  in  case  the  opposition 
to  it  indicated  any  long  delay  it  would  be  well  either 
to  sell  out  or  reduce  his  stock.  This  note  he  sent 
out  by  Rafael,  the  Mexican  roustabout,  who  was  still 
hauling  in  supplies  from  Bender,  and  then  with  a 
glad  heart  he  saddled  up  his  horse,  left  a  bait  of  meat 
on  the  floor  for  Tommy,  and  struck  out  over  the  mesa 
for  Carrizo  Creek. 

After  his  long  confinement  in  the  pasture  the  sorrel 
galloped  along  the  rocky  trail  with  the  grace  and 
swiftness  of  an  antelope,  the  warm  dry  wind  puffed 
little  whirls  of  dust  before  them,  and  once  more  Hardy 
felt  like  a  man.  If  for  the  best  interests  of  his  em- 
ployer it  was  desirable  that  he  cook  beef  and  bread  for 
sheepmen,  he  could  do  so  with  good  grace,  but  his 
spirit  was  not  that  of  a  man  who  serves.  Since  he  had 
left  home  he  had  taken  a  great  deal  from  the  world, 
patiently  accepting  her  arrogance  while  he  learned 
her  ways,  but  his  soul  had  never  been  humbled  and  he 
rode  forth  now  like  a  king. 

Upon  that  great  mesa  where  the  bronco  mustangs 
from  the  Peaks  still  defied  the  impetuosity  of  men, 
the  giant  saliuaros  towered  in  a  mighty  forest  as  far 

[119] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

as  the  eye  could  see,  yet  between  each  stalk  there 
lay  a  wide  space,  studded  here  and  there  with  nigger- 
heads  of  bristling  spines,  and  fuzzy  chollas,  white  as 
the  backs  of  sheep  and  thorny  beyond  reason.  Nor 
was  this  all:  in  the  immensity  of  distance  there  was 
room  for  sahuaros  and  niggerheads  and  chollas,  and 
much  besides.  In  every  gulch  and  sandy  draw  the 
palo  verdes,  their  yellow  flowers  gleaming  in  the  sun, 
stood  out  like  lines  of  fire;  the  bottoms  of  the  steep 
ravines  which  gashed  the  mesa  were  illuminated  with 
the  gaudy  tassels  of  mesquite  blossoms;  gray  coffee- 
berry  bushes  clumped  up  against  the  sides  of  ridges, 
and  in  every  sheltered  place  the  long  grass  waved  its 
last-year's  banners,  while  the  fresh  green  of  tender 
growth  matted  the  open  ground  like  a  lawn.  Baby 
rabbits,  feeding  along  their  runways  in  the  grass, 
sat  up  at  his  approach  or  hopped  innocently  into  the 
shadow  of  the  sheltering  cat-claws;  jack-rabbits  with 
black-tipped  ears  galloped  madly  along  before  him, 
imagining  themselves  pursued,  and  in  every  warm 
sandy  place  where  the  lizards  took  the  sun  there  was  a 
scattering  like  the  flight  of  arrows  as  the  long-legged 
swift- jacks  rose  up  on  their  toes  and  flew.  All 
nature  was  in  a  gala  mood  and  Rufus  Hardy  no  less. 
Yet  as  he  rode  along,  gazing  at  the  dreamy  beauty 
of  this  new  world,  the  old  far-away  look  crept  back 
into  his  eyes,  a  sad,  brooding  look  such  as  one  often 

[120] 


HELL'S     HIP     POCKET 

sees  in  the  faces  of  little  children  who  have  been 
crossed,  and  the  stern  lines  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
were  deeper  when  he  drew  rein  above  Carrizo  Creek. 

Below  him  lay  the  panorama  of  a  mountain  valley 
* — the  steep  and  rocky  walls ;  the  silvery  stream  writh- 
ing down  the  middle ;  the  green  and  yellow  of  flowers 
along  the  lowlands ;  and  in  the  middle,  to  give  it  life, 
a  great  herd  of  cattle  on  the  parada  ground,  weaving 
and  milling  before  the  rushes  of  yelling  horsemen, 
intent  on  cutting  out  every  steer  in  the  herd.  Beyond 
lay  the  corrals  of  peeled  cottonwood,  and  a  square 
house  standing  out  stark  and  naked  in  the  supreme 
ugliness  of  corrugated  iron,  yet  still  oddly  homelike 
in  a  land  where  shelter  was  scarce.  As  he  gazed,  a 
mighty  voice  rose  up  to  him  from  the  midst  of  the 
turmoil,  the  blatting  of  calves,  the  mooing  of  cows  and 
the  hoarse  thunder  of  mountain  bulls : 

"Hel-lo,  Rufe!" 

From  his  place  on  the  edge  of  the  herd  Hardjr  saw 
Jefferson  Creede,  almost  herculean  on  his  tall  Horse, 
waving  a  large  black  hat.  Instantly  he  put  spurs  to 
his  sorrel  and  leaped  down  the  narrow  trail,  and  at 
the  edge  of  the  herd  they  shook  hands  warmly,  for 
friends  are  scarce,  wherever  you  go. 

"Jest  in  time!"  said  Creede,  grinning  his  welcome, 
"we  're  goin'  over  into  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  to-morrow 
^— the  original  hole  in  the  ground — to  bring  out  Bill 

[121] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Johnson's  beef  critters,  and  I  sure  wanted  you  to 
make  the  trip.  How  'd  you  git  along  with  Jasp?" 

"All  right,"  responded  Hardy,  "he  did  n't  make  me 
any  trouble.  But  I  'm  glad  to  get  away  from  that 
sheep  smell,  all  the  same." 

The  big  cowboy  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him  eagerly. 

"Did  they  go  around?"  he  asked  incredulously. 
"Jasp  and  all?" 

"Sure,"  said  Hardy.     "Why?" 

For  a  long  minute  Creede  was  silent,  wrinkling  his 
brows  as  he  pondered  upon  the  miracle. 

"Well,  that 's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  answered 
ambiguously.  "But  say,  you've  got  a  fresh  horse; 
jest  take  my  place  here  while  me  and  Uncle  Bill  over 
there  show  them  ignorant  punchers  how  to  cut  cattle." 

He  circled  rapidly  about  the  herd  and,  riding  out 
into  the  runway  where  the  cattle  were  sifted,  the  beef 
steers  being  jumped  across  the  open  into  the  hold-up 
herd  and  the  cows  and  calves  turned  back,  he  held  up 
his  hand  for  the  work  to  stop.  Then  by  signals  he 
sent  the  galloping  horsemen  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
herd  and  beckoned  for  old  Bill  Johnson. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  sat  quietly  on  his  horse, 
waiting  for  the  harassed  cattle  to  stop  their  milling. 
Then  breaking  into  a  song  such  as  cowboys  sing  at 
night  he  rode  slowly  in  among  them,  threading  about 
at  random,  while  old  Bill  Johnson  on  his  ancient  mare 

[122] 


HELL'S     HIP    POCKET 

did  likewise,  his  tangled  beard  swaying  idly  in  the 
breeze.  On  the  border  of  the  herd  they  edged  in  as 
if  by  accident  upon  a  fat  steer  and  walked  him 
amiably  forth  into  the  open.  Another  followed  out 
of  natural  perversity,  and  when  both  were  nicely 
started  toward  the  beef  cut  the  two  men  drifted  back 
once  more  into  the  herd.  There  was  no  running,  no 
shouting,  no  gallant  show  of  horsemanship,  but  some- 
how the  right  steers  wandered  over  into  the  beef  cut 
and  stayed  there.  As  if  by  magic  spell  the  outlaws 
and  "snakes"  became  good,  and  with  no  breaks  for 
the  hills  the  labor  of  an  afternoon  was  accomplished  in 
the  space  of  two  dull  and  uneventful  hours. 

"That 's  the  way  to  cut  cattle!"  announced  Creede, 
as  they  turned  the  discard  toward  the  hills.  "Ain't 
it,  Bill?" 

He  turned  to  Johnson  who,  sitting  astride  a  flea- 
bitten  gray  mare  that  seemed  to  be  in  a  perpetual 
doze,  looked  more  like  an  Apache  squaw  than  a  boss 
cowboy.  The  old  man's  clothes  were  even  more 
ragged  than  when  Hardy  had  seen  him  at  Bender,  his 
copper-riveted  hat  was  further  reinforced  by  a  buck- 
skin thong  around  the  rim,  and  his  knees  were  short- 
stirruped  almost  up  to  his  elbows  by  the  puny  little 
boy's  saddle  that  he  rode,  but  his  fiery  eyes  were  as 
quick  and  piercing  as  ever. 

"Shore  thing,"  he  said,  straightening  up  jauntily 

[123] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

in  his  saddle,  "that's  my  way!  Be'n  doin'  it  fer 
years,  while  you  boys  was  killin'  horses,  but  it  takes 
Jeff  hyar  to  see  the  p'int.  Be  gentle,  boys,  be  gentle 
with  um — you  don't  gain  nawthin'  fer  all  yer  hard 
ridin'." 

He  cut  off  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  tucked  it  carefully 
away  in  his  cheek. 

"Jeff  hyar,"  he  continued,  as  the  bunch  of  cowboys 
began  to  josh  and  laugh  among  themselves,  "he  comes 
by  his  savvy  right — his  paw  was  a  smart  man  before 
him,  and  mighty  clever  to  his  friends,  to  boot. 
Many  's  the  time  I  hev  took  little  Jeffie  down  the  river 
and  learned  him  tracks  and  beaver  signs  when  he 
was  n't  knee-high  to  a  grasshopper — hain't  I,  Jeff  ? 
And  when  I  tell  him  to  be  gentle  with  them  cows  he 
knows  I  'm  right.  I  jest  want  you  boys  to  take 
notice  when  you  go  down  into  the  Pocket  to-morrer 
what  kin  be  done  by  kindness ;  and  the  first  man  that 
hollers  or  puts  a  rope  on  my  gentle  stock,  I  '11  sure 
make  him  hard  to  ketch. 

"You  hear  me,  naow,"  he  cried,  turning  sharply 
upon  Bill  Lightfoot,  who  was  getting  off  something 
about  "Little  Jeffie,"  and  then  for  the  first  time  he 
saw  the  face  of  the  new  cowboy  who  had  ridden  in 
that  afternoon.  Not  since  the  day  he  was  drunk  at 
Bender  had  Bill  Johnson  set  eyes  upon  the  little  man 

[124] 


HELL'S    HIP    POCKET 

to  whom  he  had  sworn  off,  but  he  recognized  him 
instantly. 

"Hello  thar,  pardner!"  he  exclaimed,  reining  his 
mare  in  abruptly.  "Whar  'd  you  drop  down  from?'' 

"Why  howdy  do,  Mr.  Johnson!"  answered  Hardy, 
shaking  hands,  "I  'm  glad  to  see  you  again.  Jeff  told 
me  he  was  going  down  to  your  ranch  to-morrow  and 
I  looked  to  see  you  then." 

Bill  Johnson  allowed  this  polite  speech  to  pass  over 
his  shoulder  without  response.  Then,  drawing  Hardy 
aside,  he  began  to  talk  confidentially;  expounding  to 
the  full  his  system  of  gentling  cattle ;  launching  forth 
his  invective,  which  was  of  the  pioneer  variety,  upon 
the  head  of  all  sheepmen;  and  finally  coming  around 
with  a  jerk  to  the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  his 
mind. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  ask  you  a  question — 
are  you  any  relation  to  the  Captain  Hardy  that  I 
served  with  over  at  Fort  Apache?  Seems  's  if  you 
look  like  'im,  only  smaller." 

His  stature  was  a  sore  point  with  Hardy,  and 
especially  in  connection  with  his  father,  but  making 
allowance  for  Mr.  Johnson's  ways  he  modestly  ad- 
mitted his  ancestry. 

"His  son,  eh!"  echoed  the  old  man.  "Waal — now! 
I  tell  you,  boy,  I  knowed  you — I  knowed  you  the 

[125] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

minute  you  called  down  that  dog-robber  of  a  bar- 
keep — and  I  was  half  drunk,  too.  And  so  you  're  the 
new  superintendent  down  at  the  Dos  S,  eh?  Waal, 
all  I  can  say  is :  God  help  them  pore  sheepmen  if  you 
ever  git  on  their  trail.  I  used  to  chase  Apaches  with 
yore  paw,  boy!" 

It  was  Bill  Johnson's  turn  to  talk  that  evening 
and  like  most  solitaries  who  have  not  "gone  into  the 
silence,"  he  availed  himself  of  a  listener  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

Stories  of  lion  hunts  and  "b'ar  fights"  fell  as  trip- 
pingly from  his  lips  as  the  words  of  a  professional 
monologist,  and  when  he  had  finished  his  account  of 
the  exploits  of  Captain  Samuel  Barrows  Hardy,  even 
the  envious  Lightfoot  regarded  Rufus  with  a  new 
respect,  for  there  is  no  higher  honor  in  Arizona  than 
to  be  the  son  of  an  Indian  fighter.  And  when  the 
last  man  had  crawled  wearily  into  his  blankets  the  old 
hermit  still  sat  by  the  dying  fire  poking  the  charred 
ends  into  the  flames  and  holding  forth  to  the  young 
superintendent  upon  the  courage  of  his  sire. 

Hardly  had  the  son  of  his  father  crept  under  the 
edge  of  Creede's  blankets  and  dropped  to  sleep  before 
that  huge  mountain  of  energy  rose  up  and  gave  the 
long  yell.  The  morning  was  at  its  blackest,  that 
murky  four  A.  M.  darkness  which  precedes  the  first 

[126] 


HELL'S     HIP    POCKET 

glimmer  of  light;  but  the  day's  work  had  to  be  done. 
The  shivering  horse-wrangler  stamped  on  his  boots 
and  struck  out  down  the  canon  after  the  remuda,  two 
or  three  cooks  got  busy  about  the  fire  which  roared 
higher  and  higher  as  they  piled  on  the  iron-wood  to 
make  coals,  and  before  the  sun  had  more  than 
mounted  the  southern  shoulder  of  the  Four  Peaks 
the  long  line  of  horsemen  was  well  on  the  trail  to 
Hell's  Hip  Pocket. 

The  frontier  imagination  had  in  no  wise  overleaped 
itself  in  naming  this  abyss.  Even  the  tribute  which 
Facilis  Descensus  Vergil  paid  to  the  local  Roman  hell 
could  hardly  be  said  of  the  Pocket — it  is  not  even 
easy  to  get  into  it.  From  the  top  of  the  divide  it 
looks  like  a  valley  submerged  in  a  smoky  haze  through 
which  the  peaks  and  pinnacles  of  the  lower  parks  rise 
up  like  cathedral  spires,  pointing  solemnly  to  heaven. 
As  the  trail  descends  through  washed-out  gulches  and 
"stone-patches,"  now  skating  along  the  backbone  of 
a  ridge  and  now  dropping  as  abruptly  into  some 
hollow  waterway,  the  cliffs  and  pinnacles  begin  to 
loom  up  against  the  sky ;  then  they  seem  to  close  in  and 
block  the  way,  and  just  as  the  canon  boxes  in  to 
nothing  the  trail  slips  into  a  gash  in  the  face  of  the 
cliff  where  the  soft  sandstone  has  crumbled  away  be- 
tween two  harder  strata,  and  climbs  precariously 

[127] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

along  through  the  sombre  gloom  of  the  gorge  to  the 
bright  light  of  the  fair  valley  beyond. 

It  is  a  kind  of  fairy  land,  that  hidden  pocket  in  the 
hills,  always  covered  by  a  mystic  haze,  for  which  the 
Mexicans  give  it  the  name  Humada.  Its  steep  canon 
comes  down  from  the  breast  of  the  most  easterly  of 
the  Four  Peaks,  impassable  except  by  the  one  trail;  it 
passes  through  the  box  and  there  widens  out  into  a 
beautiful  valley,  where  the  grass  lies  along  the  hill- 
sides like  the  tawny  mane  of  a  lion,,  and  tender  flowers 
stand  untrampled  in  the  rich  bottoms.  For  three 
miles  or  more  it  spreads  out  between  striated  cliffs 
where  hawks  and  eagles  make  their  nests;  then  once 
more  it  closes  in,  the  creek  plunges  down  a  narrow 
gorge  and  disappears,  writhing  tortuously  on  its  way 
to  the  Salagua  whose  fire-blasted  walls  rise  in  huge 
bulwarks  against  the  south,  dwarfing  the  near-by 
cliffs  into  nothingness  by  their  majestic  height. 

In  the  presence  of  this  unearthly  beauty  and 
grandeur  old  Bill  Johnson — ex-trapper,  ex-soldier, 
ex-prospector,  ex-everything — had  dwelt  for  twenty 
years,  dating  from  the  days  when  his  house  was  hi*; 
fortress,  and  his  one  desire  was  to  stand  off  the 
Apaches  until  he  could  find  the  Lost  Dutchman. 

Where  the  valley  narrowed  down  for  its  fin  a] 
plunge  into  the  gorge  the  old  trapper  had  built  his 
cabin,  its  walls  laid  "square  with  the  world"  by  sight- 

[128] 


HELL'S     HIP     POCKET 

ing  on  the  North  Star.  When  the  sun  entered  the 
threshold  of  the  western  door  it  was  noon,  and 
his  watch  never  ran  down.  The  cabin  was  built  of 
shaly  rocks,  squared  and  laid  in  mud,  like  bricks;  a 
tremendous  stone  chimney  stood  against  the  north 
end  and  a  corral  for  his  burros  at  the  south.  Three 
hounds  with  bleared  eyes  and  flapping  ears,  their  fore- 
heads wrinkled  with  age  and  the  anxieties  of  the  hunt, 
bayed  forth  a  welcome  as  the  cavalcade  strung  in 
across  the  valley;  and  mild-eyed  cattle,  standing  on 
the  ridges  to  catch  the  wind,  stared  down  at  them  in 
surprise.  Never,  even  at  San  Carlos,  where  the 
Chiricahua  cattle  fatten  on  the  best  feed  in  Arizona, 
had  Hardy  seen  such  mountains  of  beef.  Old  steers 
with  six  and  seven  rings  on  their  horns  hung  about 
the  salting  places,  as  if  there  were  no  such  things  as 
beef  drives  and  slaughter  houses  in  this  cruel  world, 
and  even  when  the  cowboys  spread  out  like  a  fan  and 
brought  them  all  in  to  the  cutting  grounds  there  was 
hardly  a  calf  that  bawled. 

As  the  three  or  four  hundred  head  that  made  up 
his  entire  earthly  possession  drifted  obediently  in,  the 
old  man  rode  up  to  Creede  and  Hardy  and  waved 
his  hand  expansively. 

"Thar,  boys,"  he  said,  "thar  's  the  results  of  peace 
and  kindness.  Nary  a  critter  thar  that  I  heve  n't 
scratched  between  the  horns  since  the  day  his  maw 

9  [129] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

brought  him  down  to  the  salt  lick.  I  even  git  Jeff 
and  the  boys  to  brand  and  earmark  'em  fer  me,  so 
they  won't  hev  no  hard  feelin'  fer  the  Old  Man. 
D'  ye  see  that  big  white-faced  steer?"  he  asked,  point- 
ing with  pride  to  the  monarch  of  the  herd.  "Waal, 
how  much  ye  think  he  '11  weigh?"  he  demanded,  turn- 
ing to  Creede.  "Fifteen  hundred?" 

"Um,  more  'n  that,"  responded  Creede,  squinting 
his  eyes  down  judicially.  "Them  Herefords  are 
awful  solid  when  they  git  big.  I  reckon  he  '11  run 
nigh  onto  seventeen  hundred,  Bill."  He  paused  and 
winked  furtively  at  Hardy.  "I  kin  git  fifty  dollars 
fer  that  old  boy,  jest  the  way  he  stands,"  he  said, 
"and  bein'  as  he  can't  carry  no  more  weight  nohow, 

I  '11  jest  cut  him  into   the  town  herd  right  now, 
and—" 

"Hyar!"  shouted  Johnson,  grabbing  the  cowboy's 

bridle,  "who  's  doin'  this,  anyhow?" 

"W'y   you,   Bill,"    answered    Creede    innocently, 

"but—" 

"That 's  all  right,  then,"  said  the  old  man  shortly, 

"you  leave  that  steer  alone.     I  '11  jest  cut  this  herd  to 

suit  myself." 

Over  at  the  branding  pen  the  irons  were  on  the 

fire  and  the  marking  was  progressing  rapidly,  but  out 

in  the  open  Mr.  Bill  Johnson  was  making  slow  work 

of  his  cut. 

[1301 


HELL'S    HIP    POCKET 

"He  gets  stuck  on  them  cows,  like  an  Irishman  with 
his  pig,"  observed  Creede,  as  the  old  man  turned  back 
a  prime  four-year-old.  "He  'd  rather  be  barbecued 
by  the  Apaches  than  part  with  that  big  white-faced 
boy.  If  I  owned  'em  I  'd  send  down  a  lot  of  them 
big  fat  brutes  and  buy  doggies;  but  Bill  spends  all 
the  money  he  gits  f er  booze  anyhow,  so  I  reckon  it 's 
all  righto  He  generally  sends  out  about  twenty  runtt 
and  roughs,  and  lets  it  go  at  that.  Say!  You'll 
have  to  git  a  move  on,  Bill,"  he  shouted,  "we  want  to 
send  that  beef  cut  on  ahead!" 

The  old  man  reined  in  his  mare  and  surveyed  the 
big  herd  critically. 

"Waal,"  he  drawled,  "I  reckon  that  '11  do  fer  this 
trip,  then.  Take  'em  along.  And  the  fust  one  of 
you  punchers  that  hits  one  of  them  critters  over  the 
tail  with  his  hondu,"  he  shouted,  as  the  eager  horse- 
men trotted  over  to  start  them,  "will  hev  me  to 
lick!" 

He  placed  an  order  for  provisions  with  Creede, 
asked  him  to  keep  the  supplies  at  Hidden  Water  until 
he  came  over  for  them  with  the  burros,  and  turned 
away  contentedly  as  the  cowboys  went  upon  their 
way. 

Down  by  the  branding  pen  the  mother  cows  licked 
the  blood  from  their  offsprings'  mangled  ears  and 
mooed  resentfully,  but  the  big  white-faced  steer  stood 

[131] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

in  brutish  content  on  the  salting  grounds  and  gazed 
after  the  town  herd  thoughtfully. 

A  bunch  of  burros  gathered  about  the  doorway  of 
the  cabin,  snooping  for  bacon  rinds ;  the  hounds  leaned 
their  heavy  jowls  upon  his  knees  and  gazed  up 
worshipfully  into  their  master's  face;  and  as  the  sun 
dipped  down  toward  the  rim  of  the  mighty  cliffs  that 
shut  him  in,  the  lord  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  broke  into 
the  chorus  of  an  ancient  song: 

"Oh,  o-ver  the  prairies,  and  o-ver  the  mountains, 
And  o-ver  the  prairies,  and  o-ver  the  mountains, 
And  o-ver  the  prairies,  and  o-ver  the  mountains, 
I  '11  go  till  I  find  me  a  home." 


[132] 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A  YEAK'S  MAIL 

HE  beef  herd  was  safely  delivered  at  Bender,  the 
feeders  disposed  of  at  Moroni,  and  the  checks 
sent  on  to  the  absentee  owner,  who  did  not  know  a 
steer  from  a  stag;  the  rodeo  hands  were  paid  off  and 
successfully  launched  upon  their  big  drunk;  bills  were 
paid  and  the  Summer's  supplies  ordered  in,  and  then 
at  last  the  superintendent  and  rod6o  boss  settled  down 
to  a  little  domesticity. 

Since  the  day  that  Hardy  had  declined  to  drink 
with  him  Creede  had  quietly  taken  to  water,  and  he 
planted  a  bag  of  his  accumulated  wages  in  a  corner 
of  the  mud  floor,  to  see,  as  he  facetiously  expressed  it, 
if  it  would  grow.  Mr.  Bill  Johnson  had  also  saved 
his  "cow  money"  from  Black  Tex  and  banked  it  with 
Hardy,  who  had  a  little  cache  of  his  own,  as  well. 
With  their  finances  thus  nicely  disposed  of  the  two 
partners  swept  the  floor,  cleaned  up  the  cooking 
dishes,  farmed  out  their  laundry  to  a  squaw,  and  set 
their  house  in  order  generally.  They  were  just 
greasing  up  their  reatas  for  a  run  after  the  wild 
horses  of  Bronco  Mesa  when  Rafael  pulled  in  with 

[133] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

a  wagon-load  of  supplies  and  destroyed  their  peaceful 
life. 

It  was  late  when  the  grinding  and  hammering  of 
wheels  upon  the  bowlders  of  the  creek-bed  announced 
his  near  approach  and  Creede  went  out  to  help  unload 
the  provisions.  A  few  minutes  later  he  stepped  into 
the  room  where  Hardy  was  busily  cooking  and  stood 
across  the  table  from  him  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  grinning  mischievously. 

"Rufe,"  he  said,  "y°u  Ve  got  a  girl." 

Hardy  looked  up  quickly  and  caught  the  signifi- 
cance of  his  pose,  but  he  did  not  smile.  He  did  not 
even  show  an  interest  in  the  play. 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?"  he  asked,  indif- 
ferently. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  drawled  Creede.  "Got  a  letter  from 
her." 

A  single  hawk-like  glance  was  the  only  answer  to 
this  sally. 

"She  says:  'Why  the  hell  don't  you  write!'  "  volun- 
teered the  cowboy. 

"  'S  that  so!"  commented  Hardy,  and  then  he  went 
on  with  his  cooking. 

For  a  minute  Creede  stood  watching  him,  his  eyes 
keen  to  detect  the  slightest  quaver,  but  the  little  man 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  forgotten  him;  he  moved 

[IMS 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

about  absently,  mechanically,  dropping  nothing,  burn- 
ing nothing,  yet  far  away,  as  in  a  dream. 

"Huh!" 'exclaimed  Creede,  disgusted  with  his  own 
make-believe,  "you  don't  seem  to  care  whether  school 
keeps  or  not.  I  '11  excuse  you  from  any  further  work 
this  evenin' — here  's  your  mail." 

He  drew  a  bundle  of  letters  from  behind  his  back 
and  dropped  it  heavily  upon  the  table,  but  even  then 
Hardy  did  not  rise. 

"Guess  the  Old  Man  must  Ve  forwarded  my  mail," 
he  remarked,  smiling  at  the  size  of  the  pack.  "I  've 
been  knocking  around  so,  I  have  n't  received  a  letter 
in  a  year.  Chuck  'em  on  my  desk,  will  ye?" 

"Sure,"  responded  Creede,  and  stepping  across  the 
broad  living-room  he  threw  the  bundle  carelessly  on 
the  bed. 

"You  're  like  me,"  he  remarked,  drawing  his  chair 
up  sociably  to  supper,  "I  ain't  got  a  letter  fer  so 
long  I  never  go  near  the  dam'  post  office." 

He  sighed,  and  filled  his  plate  with  beans. 

"Ever  been  in  St.  Louis?"  he  inquired  casually. 
"No?  They  say  it 's  a  fine  burg.  Think  I  '11  save 
up  my  dinero  and  try  it  a  whirl  some  day." 

The  supper  table  was  cleared  and  Creede  had  lit  his 
second  cigarette  before  Hardy  reverted  to  the  matter 
of  his  mail. 

[135] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  might  as  well  look  over  those 
letters — may  be  a  thousand-dollar  check  amongst 
them." 

Then,  stepping  into  his  room,  he  picked  up  the 
package,  examined  it  curiously,  and  cut  the  cords  with 
his  knife. 

A  sheaf  of  twenty  or  more  letters  spilled  out  and, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  he  shuffled  them  over 
in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  fire,  noting  each  inscrip- 
tion with  a  quick  glance ;  and  as  he  gathered  up  the 
last  he  quietly  tucked  three  of  them  beneath  the  folds 
of  his  blankets — two  in  the  same  hand,  bold  and 
dashing  yet  stamped  with  a  certain  feminine  delicacy 
and  grace,  and  each  envelope  of  a  pale  blue ;  the  third 
also  feminine,  but  inscribed  in  black  and  white,  a 
crooked  little  hand  that  strayed  across  the  page,  yet 
modestly  shrank  from  trespassing  on  the  stamp. 

With  the  remainder  of  his  mail  Hardy  blundered 
over  to  the  table,  dumping  the  loose  handful  in  a 
great  pile  before  the  weak  glimmer  of  the  lamp. 

"There,"  he  said,  as  Creede  blinked  at  the  heap,  "I 
reckon  that 's  mail  enough  for  both  of  us.  You  can 
read  the  advertisements  and  I  '11  see  what  the  judge 
has  to  say  for  himself.  Pitch  in,  now."  He  waved 
his  hand  towards  a  lot  of  business  envelopes,  but 
Creede  shook  his  head  and  continued  to  smoke 
dreamily. 

[1361 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

"Nope,"  he  said  briefly,  "don't  interest  me." 

He  reached  out  and  thumbed  the  letters  over 
dumbly,  spelling  out  a  long  word  here  and  there  or 
scrutinizing  some  obscure  handwriting  curiously,  as  if 
it  were  Chinese,  or  an  Indian  sign  on  a  rock.  Then, 
shoving  back  his  chair,  he  watched  Hardy's  face  as  he 
skimmed  rapidly  through  the  first  letter. 

"Good  news  in  the  first  part  of  it  and  bad  in  the 
last,"  he  remarked,  as  Hardy  put  it  down. 

"That 's  right,"  admitted  Hardy,  "but  how  'd  you 
Know?" 

He  gazed  up  at  his  complacent  partner  with  a  look 
of  innocent  wonder,  and  Creede  laughed. 

"W'y,  hell,  boy,"  he  said,  "I  can  read  you  like  a 
book.  Your  face  tells  the  whole  story  as  you  go 
along.  After  you  Ve  been  down  here  in  Arizona  a 
few  seasons  and  got  them  big  eyes  of  yourn  squinched 
down  a  little — well,  I  may  have  to  ast  you  a  few 
questions,  then." 

He  waved  his  hand  in  a  large  gesture  and  blew  out 
a  cloud  of  smoke,  while  a  twinkle  of  amusement  crept 
into  Hardy's  unsquinched  eyes. 

"Maybe  I  'm  smoother  than  I  look,"  he  suggested 
3ryly.  "You  big,  fat  fellows  get  so  self-satisfied 
sometimes  that  you  let  lots  of  things  go  by  you." 

"Well,  I  '11  take  my  chances  on  you,"  answered 
Creede  placidly.  "What  did  the  old  judge  say?" 

[137] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"He  says  you  did  fine  with  the  cattle,"  said  Hardy, 
"and  sold  'em  just  in  time — the  market  fell  off  within 
a  week  after  we  shipped." 

"Um-huh,"  grunted  Creede.  "And  what 's  the  bad 
bunch  of  news  at  the  end?" 

The  bad  bunch  of  news  was  really  of  a  personal 
nature,  stirring  up  unpleasant  memories,  but  Hardy 
passed  it  off  by  a  little  benevolent  dissimulation. 

"He  says  he  's  mighty  glad  I  steered  the  sheep 
away,  but  there  is  something  funny  going  on  back  in 
Washington;  some  combine  of  the  sheep  and  lumber 
interests  has  got  in  and  blocked  the  whole  Forest 
Reserve  business  and  there  won't  be  any  Salagua 
Forest  Reserve  this  year.  So  I  guess  my  job  of 
sheep -wrangler  is  going  to  hold;  at  least  the  judge 
asked  me  to  stay  with  it  until  Fall." 

"Well,  you  stay  then,  Rufe,"  said  Creede  earnestly, 
"because  I  Ve  kinder  got  stuck  on  you — I  like  your 
style,"  he  added  half  apologetically. 

"All  right,  Jeff,"  said  Hardy.  "Here  's  another 
letter — from  my  father.  See  if  you  can  guess  what 
it  is  like." 

He  set  his  face  rigidly  and  read  the  short  letter 
through  without  a  quaver. 

"You  and  the  Old  Man  have  had  a  fallin'-out," 
observed  Creede,  with  a  shrewd  grin,  "and  he  says 

[138] 


rA    YEAR'S    MAIL 

when  you  git  good  and  tired  of  bein'  a  dam'  fool  you 
might  as  well  come  home." 

"Well,  that 's  about  the  size  of  it,"  admitted  Hardy. 
"I  never  told  you  much  about  my  father,  did  I?" 

"Never  knew  you  had  one,"  said  Creede,  "until 
Bill  Johnson  began  to  blow  about  what  an  Injun- 
fighter  he  was.  I  reckon  that 's  where  you  git  your 
sportin'  blood,  ain't  it?" 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  began  Hardy.  "The  Old 
Man  and  I  never  did  get  along  together.  He  's  used 
to  commanding  soldiers  and  all  that,  and  I  'm  kind  of 
quiet,  but  he  always  took  a  sneaking  pride  in  me 
when  I  was  a  boy,  I  guess.  Anyway,  every  time  I  'd 
get  into  a  fight  around  the  post  and  lick  two  or  three 
Mexican  kids,  or  do  some  good  work  riding  or  shoot- 
ing, he  'd  say  I  'd  be  a  man  before  my  mother,  or 
something  like  that — but  that  was  as  far  as  he  got. 
And  all  the  time,  on  the  quiet,  he  was  educating  me 
for  the  Army.  His  father  was  a  captain,  and  he  's  a 
colonel,  and  I  can  see  now  he  was  lotting  on  my  doing 
as  well  or  better — but  hell,  that  only  made  matters 


Worse." 


He  slid  down  in  his  chair  and  gazed  into  the  fire 
gloomily.  It  was  the  first  time  Creede  had  heard  his 
partner  use  even  the  mildest  of  the  range  expletives, 
for  in  that  particular  he  was  still  a  tenderfoot,  and  the 

[139] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

word  suddenly  conveyed  to  him  the  depths  of  the  little 
man's  abandonment  and  despair. 

"Why — what  was  the  matter?"  he  inquired  sym- 
pathetically. "Couldn't  you  git  no  appointment?" 

"Huh!"  growled  Hardy.  "I  guess  you  know,  all 
right.  Look  at  me!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  sudden  gust 
of  passion  and  resentment.  "Why,  damn  it,  man, 
I  'm  an  inch  too  short!" 

"Well— I  '11— be— dogged!"  breathed  Creede.  "I 
never  thought  of  that!" 

"No,"  rejoined  Hardy  bitterly,  "nor  the  Old  Man, 
either — not  until  I  stopped  growing!  Well,  he 
has  n't  had  a  bit  of  use  for  me  since.  That 's  the  size 
of  it.  And  he  did  n't  take  any  pains  to  conceal  the 
fact — most  army  men  don't.  There  's  only  one  man 
in  the  world  to  them,  and  that's  a  soldier;  and  if 
you  're  not  a  soldier,  you  're  nothing." 

He  waved  a  hand  as  if  dismissing  himself  from  the 
universe,  and  sank  moodily  into  his  seat,  while  Creede 
looked  him  over  in  silence. 

"Rufe,"  he  said  quietly,  "d'  ye  remember  that  time 
when  I  picked  you  to  be  boss  sheep-wrangler,  down 
at  Bender?  Well,  I  might  as  well  tell  you  about 
that  now — 't  won't  do  no  harm.  The  old  judge 
couldn't  figure  out  what  it  was  I  see  in  you  to 
recommend  you  for  the  job.  Like  's  not  you  don't 
know  yourself.  He  thought  I  was  pickin'  you  be- 

[140] 


A    YEAR'S    MAIL 

cause  you  was  a  peaceful  guy,  and  would  n't  fight 
Black  Tex ;  but  that 's  where  he  got  fooled,  and  fooled 
bad!  I  picked  you  because  I  knew  dam'  well  you 
would  fight!" 

He  leaned  far  over  across  the  table  and  his  eyes 
glowed  with  a  fierce  light. 

"D'  ye  think  I  want  some  little  suckin'  mamma's- 
joy  of  a  diplomat  on  my  hands  when  it  comes  to  a 
show-down  with  them  sheepmen?"  he  cried.  "No,  by 
God,  I  want  a  man,  and  you  're  the  boy,  Ruf  e ;  so 
shake!" 

He  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.     Hardy  took  it. 

"I  would  n't  have  sprung  this  on  you,  pardner,"  he 
continued  apologetically,  "if  I  didn't  see  you  so 
kinder  down  in  the  mouth  about  your  old  man.  But 
I  jest  want  you  to  know  that  they  's  one  man  that 
appreciates  you  for  a  plain  scrapper.  And  I  '11  tell 
you  another  thing;  when  the  time  comes  you  '11  look 
jest  as  big  over  the  top  of  a  six-shooter  as  I  do,  and 
stand  only  half  the  chanst  to  git  hit.  Wy,  shucks !" 
he  exclaimed  magnanimously,  "my  size  is  agin'  me  at 
every  turn ;  my  horse  can't  hardly  pack  me,  I  eat  such 
a  hell  of  a  lot,  and,  well,  I  never  can  git  a  pair  of  pants 

to  fit  me.     What 's  this  here  letter  ?" 

i 

He  picked  one  up  at  random,  and  Hardy  ascer- 
tained that  his  tailor  some  six  months  previously  had 
moved  to  a  new  and  more  central  location,  where  he 

[141] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

would  be  pleased  to  welcome  all  his  old  customers. 
But  the  subject  of  diminutive  size  was  effectually  dis- 
missed and,  having  cheered  up  his  little  friend  as  best 
he  could,  Creede  seized  the  occasion  to  retire.  Lying 
upon  his  broad  back  in  his  blankets,  with  Tommy 
purring  comfortably  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  he 
smoked  out  his  cigarette  in  speculative  silence,  gazing 
up  at  the  familiar  stars  whose  wheelings  mark  off  the 
cowboy's  night,  and  then  dropped  quietly  to  sleep, 
leaving  his  partner  to  brood  over  his  letters  alone. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there,  opening  them  one  by 
one — the  vague  and  indifferent  letters  which  drift  in 
while  one  is  gone;  and  at  last  he  stole  silently  across 
the  dirt  floor  and  brought  out  the  three  letters  f rom 
his  bed.  There  in  a  moment,  if  he  had  been  present, 
Creede  might  have  read  him  like  a  book;  his  lips 
drawn  tight,  his  eyes  big  and  staring,  as  he  tore  open 
one  of  the  pale  blue  envelopes  with  trembling  hands. 
The  fragments  of  a  violet,  shattered  by  the  long 
journey,  fell  before  him  as  he  plucked  out  the  note, 
and  its  delicate  fragrance  rose  up  like  incense  as  he 
read.  He  hurried  through  the  missive,  as  if  seeking 
something  which  was  not  there,  then  his  hungry  eyes 
left  the  unprofitable  page  and  wandered  about  the 
empty  room,  only  to  come  back  to  those  last  words: 
"Always  your  Friend,  Kitty  Bonnair." 

"Always    your    friend,"    he    repeated    bitterly — * 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

"always  your  friend.  Ah,  God !"  He  sighed  wearily 
and  shook  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  lapsed  into 
dreams;  then,  reaching  out,  he  picked  up  the  second 
letter,  postmarked  over  a  year  before,  and  examined 
it  idly.  The  very  hour  of  its  collection  was  recorded 
—"Ferry  Sta.  1.30  A;  M."— and  the  date  he  could 
never  forget.  Written  on  that  very  same  day,  and 
yet  its  message  had  never  reached  him ! 

He  could  see  as  in  a  vision  the  shrouded  form  of 
Kitty  Bonnair  slipping  from  her  door  at  midnight  to 
fling  a  final  word  after  him,  not  knowing  how  far  he 
would  flee;  he  could  see  the  lonely  mail  collector,  half 
obscured  in  the  San  Francisco  fog,  as  he  scooped  the 
letter  from  the  box  with  many  others  and  boarded  the 
car  for  the  ferry.  It  was  a  last  retort,  and  likely 
bitter,  for  he  had  spoken  in  anger  himself,  and  Kitty 
was  not  a  woman  to  be  denied.  There  was  an  exag- 
gerated quirk  to  the  square  corners  of  her  letters,  a 
brusque  shading  of  the  down  strokes — undoubtedly 
Kitty  was  angry.  But  for  once  he  had  disarmed  her— 
it  was  a  year  after,  now,  and  he  had  read  her  forgive- 
ness first!  Yet  it  was  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the 
heart  that  he  opened  the  blue  envelope  and  stared  at 
the  scribbled  words : 

DEAR  FRIEND  THAT  WAS  :  My  heart  is  very  sore  to-night 
— I  had  trusted  you  so — I  had  depended  upon  you  so — and 
now  you  have  deliberately  broken  all  your  faith  and  promises. 

[143] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Rufus,  I  had  thought  you  different  from  other  men — more 
gentle,  more  considerate,  more  capable  of  a  true  friendship 
which  I  fondly  hoped  would  last  forever — but  now,  oh,  I  can 
never  forgive  you!  Just  when  life  was  heaviest  with  disap- 
pointments, just  when  I  was  leaning  upon  you  most  as  a  true 
friend  and  comrade — then  you  must  needs  spoil  it  all.  And 
after  I  had  told  you  I  could  never  love  any  one!  Have  you 
forgotten  all  that  I  told  you  in  the  balcony  ?  Have  you  for- 
gotten all  that  I  have  risked  for  the  friendship  I  held  so  dear? 
And  then  to  spoil  it  all !  Oh,  I  hate  you — I  hate  you  1 

He  stopped  and  stiffened  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes 
turned  wild  with  horror;  then  he  gathered  his  letters 
together  blindly  and  crept  away  to  bed.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  arose  and  went  about  his  work  with  mouse-like 
quietness,  performing  all  things  thoroughly  and  well, 
talking,  even  laughing,  yet  with  a  droop  like  that  of  a 
wounded  creature  that  seeks  only  to  hide  and  escape. 

Creede  watched  him  furtively,  hung  around  the 
house  for  a  while,  then  strode  out  to  the  pasture  and 
caught  up  his  horse. 

"Be  back  this  aft,"  he  said,  and  rode  majestically 
away  up  the  canon,  where  he  would  be  out  of  the  way. 
For  men,  too,  have  their  instincts  and  intuitions,  and 
they  are  even  willing  to  leave  alone  that  which  they 
cannot  remedy  and  do  not  understand. 

As  Creede  galloped  off,  leaving  the  ranch  of  a 
sudden  lonely  and  quiet,  Tommy  poked  his  head 
anxiously  out  through  a  slit  in  the  canvas  bottom  of 

[144] 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

the  screen  door  and  began  to  cry — his  poor  cracked 
yoice,  all  broken  from  calling  for  help  from  the 
coyotes,  quavering  dismally.  In  his  most  raucous 
tones  he  continued  this  lament  for  his  master  until  at 
last  Hardy  gathered  him  up  and  held  him  to  his 
breast. 

"Ah,  Kitty,  Kitty,"  he  said,  and  at  the  caressing 
note  in  his  voice  the  black  cat  began  to  purr  hoarsely, 
raising  his  scrawny  head  in  the  ecstasy  of  being  loved. 
Thief  and  reprobate  though  he  was,  and  sadly  given 
to  leaping  upon  the  table  and  flying  spitefully  at  dogs, 
even  that  rough  creature  felt  the  need  of  love;  how 
much  more  the  sensitive  and  high-bred  man,  once  poet 
and  scholar,  now  cowboy  and  sheep-wrangler,  but 
always  the  unhappy  slave  of  Kitty  Bonnair. 

The  two  letters  lay  charred  to  ashes  among  the 
glowing  coals,  but  their  words,  even  the  kindest 
meant,  were  seared  deep  in  his  heart,  fresh  hurts  upon 
older  scars,  and  as  he  sat  staring  at  the  gaunt  sahuaros 
on  the  hilltops  he  meditated  gloomily  upon  his  reply. 
Then,  depositing  Tommy  on  the  bed,  he  sat  down  at 
his  desk  before  the  iron-barred  window  and  began  to 
write. 

DEAE  FEIEND  THAT  WAS  :     Your  two  letters  came  together 

— -the  one  that  you  have  just  sent,  and  the  one  written  on 

that  same  night,  which  I  hope  I  may  some  day  forget.     It 

was  not  a  very  kind  letter — I  am  sorry  that  I  should  ever  have 

10  [145] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

offended  you,  but  it  was  not  gently  done.  No  friend  could 
ever  speak  so  to  another,  I  am  sure.  As  for  the  cause,  I  am 
a  human  being,  a  man  like  other  men,  and  I  am  not  ashamed. 
Yet  that  I  should  so  fail  to  read  your  mind  I  am  ashamed. 
Perhaps  it  was  my  egotism,  which  made  me  over-bold,  thinking 
that  any  woman  could  love  me.  But  if  what  I  offered  was 
nothing  to  you,  if  even  for  a  moment  you  hated  me,  it  is 
enough.  Now  for  all  this  talk  of  friendship — I  am  not  your 
friend  and  never  will  be;  and  if,  after  what  has  passed,  you 
are  my  friend,  I  ask  but  one  thing — let  me  forget.  For  I 
will  never  come  back,  I  will  never  write,  I  will  never  submit. 
Surely,  with  all  that  life  offers  you,  you  can  spare  me  the 
humiliation  of  being  angry  with  you. 

I  am  now  engaged  in  work  which,  out  of  consideration  for 
Judge  Ware,  I  cannot  leave;  otherwise  I  would  not  ask  you 
not  to  write  to  me. 

Trusting  that  you  will  remember  me  kindly  to  your  mother, 
I  remain,  sincerely, 

RUFUS  HARDY. 

He  signed  his  name  at  the  bottom,  folded  the  sheet 
carefully,  and  thrust  the  sealed  envelope  into  an  inner 
pocket.  Then  for  the  first  time,  he  drew  out  the 
third  letter  and  spread  its  pages  before  him — a  long 
letter,  full  of  news,  yet  asking  no  questions.  The 
tense  lines  about  his  lips  relaxed  as  he  read,  he  smiled 
whimsically  as  he  heard  of  the  queer  doings  of  his  old- 
time  friends;  how  these  two  had  run  away  and  got 
married 'in  order  to  escape  a  church  wedding,  how 
Tupper  Browne  had  painted  a  likeness  of  Mather 
in  Hades — after  the  "Dante"  of  Dore — and  had  been 

[146] 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

detected  in  the  act;  and  then  this  little  note,  cued  in 
casually  near  the  end: 

Kitty  Bonnair  has  given  up  art  for  the  present  on  account 
of  her  eyes,  and  has  gone  in  for  physical  culture  and  riding 
lessons  in  the  park.  She  dropped  in  at  the  last  meeting  of 
The  Circle,  and  I  told  her  how  curiously  father  had  encoun- 
tered you  at  Bender.  We  all  miss  you  very  much  at  The 
Circle — in  fact,  it  is  not  doing  so  well  of  late.  Kitty  has  not 
attended  a  meeting  in  months,  and  I  often  wonder  where  we 
may  look  for  another  Poet,  Philosopher,  and  Friend — unless 
you  will  come  back!  Father  did  not  tell  me  where  you  had 
been  or  what  you  intended  to  do,  but  I  hope  you  have  not 
given  up  the  Muse.  To  encourage  you  I  will  send  down  a 
book,  now  and  then,  and  you  may  send  me  a  poem.  Is  it  a 
bargain?  Then  good-bye. 

With  best  wishes, 

LUCY  WARE. 

P.  S. — I  met  your  father  on  the  street  the  other  day,  and 
he  seemed  very  much  pleased  to  hear  how  well  you  were  getting 
along. 

Hardy  put  the  letter  down  and  sighed. 

"Now  there  's  a  thoroughly  nice  girl,"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  why  she  does  n't  get  married."  Then,  reach- 
ing for  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper,  he  began  to  write, 
describing  the  beauty  of  the  country;  the  noble  quali- 
ties of  his  horse,  Chapuli,  the  Grasshopper ;  the  march 
of  the  vast  army  of  sheep ;  Creede,  Tommy,  and  what- 
not, with  all  the  pent-up  enthusiasm  of  a  year's  lone- 
liness. When  it  was  ended  he  looked  at  the  letter 

[147] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

with  a  smile,  wondering  whether  to  send  it  by  freight 
or  express.  Six  cents  in  stamps  was  the  final  solution 
of  the  problem,  and  as  his  pocketbook  contained  only 
four  he  stuck  them  on  and  awaited  his  partner's 
return. 

"Say,  Jeff,"  he  called,  as  Creede  came  in  from  the 
pasture,  "have  you  got  any  stamps?" 

"Any  which?"  inquired  Creede  suspiciously. 

"Any  postage  stamps — to  put  on  letters." 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  Creede.  "You  must  think  I  've 
got  a  girl — or  important  business  in  the  States.  No, 
I  '11  tell  you.  The  only  stamp  I  've  got  is  in  a  glass 
frame,  hung  up  on  the  wall — picture  of  George  Wash- 
ington, you  know.  Haven't  you  never  seen  it? 
W'y,  it 's  right  there  in  the  parler — jest  above  the 
pianney — and  a  jim-dandy  piece  of  steel  engraving 
she  is,  too."  He  grinned  broadly  as  he  concluded  this 
running  fire  of  jest,  but  his  partner  remained  serious 
to  the  end. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  guess  I  '11  go  down  to  Moroni  in 
the  morning,  then." 

"What  ye  goin'  down  there  for?"  demanded  Creede 
incredulously. 

"Why,  to  buy  a  stamp,  of  course,"  replied  Hardy, 
"it's  only  forty  miles,  isn't  it?"  And  early  in  the 
morning,  true  to  his  word,  he  saddled  up  Chapuli  and 
struck  out  down  the  river. 

[148] 


A    YEAR'S     MAIL 

From  the  doorway  Creede  watched  him  curiously, 
his  lips  parted  in  a  dubious  smile. 

"There  's  something  funny  goin'  on  here,  ladies,"  he 
observed  sagely,  "something  funny — and  I  'm  dogged 
if  I  savvy  what  it  is."  He  stooped  and  scooped 
up  Tommy  in  one  giant  paw.  "Well,  Tom,  Old 
Socks,"  he  said,  holding  him  up  where  he  coul(f 
sniff  delicately  at  the  rafters,  "y°u  've  got  a  pretty 
good  nose,  how  about  it,  now — can  you  smell  a  rat?" 
But  even  Tommy  could  not  explain  why  a  man  should 
ride  forty  miles  in  order  to  buy  a  stamp. 


[149] 


CHAPTER    IX 

MORONI 

rPHE  Mormon  settlement  of  Moroni  proved  to  be- 
long to  that  large  class  of  Western  "cities" 
known  as  "string-towns" — a  long  line  of  stores  on 
either  side  of  a  main  street,  bricK  where  fires  have 
swept  away  the  shacks,  and  wood  with  false  fronts 
where  dynamite  or  a  change  of  wind  has  checked  the 
conflagration;  a  miscellaneous  conglomeration  of 
saloons,  restaurants,  general  stores,  and  livery  stables, 
all  very  satisfying  to  the  material  wants  of  man,  but 
in  the  ensemble  not  over-pleasing  to  the  eye. 

At  first  glance,  Moroni  might  have  been  Reno, 
Nevada;  or  Gilroy,  California;  or  Deming,  New 
Mexico ;  or  even  Bender — except  for  the  railroad.  A 
second  glance,  however,  disclosed  a  smaller  number  of 
disconsolate  cow  ponies  standing  in  front  of  the 
saloons  and  a  larger  number  of  family  rigs  tied  to  the 
horse  rack  in  front  of  Swope's  Store ;  there  was  also  a 
tithing  house  with  many  doors,  a  brick  church,  and, 
women  and  children  galore.  And  for  twenty  miles 
around  there  was  nothing  but  flowing  canals  and  irri- 
gated fields  waving  with  wheat  and  alfalfa,  all  so 

[150] 


MORONI 

green  and  prosperous  that  a  stranger  from  the  back 
country  was  likely  to  develop  a  strong  leaning  toward 
the  faith  before  he  reached  town  and  noticed  the 
tithing  house. 

As  for  Hardy,  his  eyes,  so  long  accustomed  to  the 
green  lawns  and  trees  of  Berkeley,  turned  almost 
wistful  as  he  gazed  away  across  the  rich  fields,  dotted 
with  cocks  of  hay  or  resounding  to  the  whirr  of  the 
mower;  but  for  the  sweating  Latter  Day  Saints  who 
labored  in  the  fields,  he  had  nothing  but  the  pitying 
contempt  of  the  cowboy.  It  was  a  fine  large  country, 
to  be  sure,  and  produced  a  lot  of  very  necessary  horse 
feed,  but  Chapuli  shied  when  his  feet  struck  the 
freshly  sprinkled  street,  and  somehow  his  master  felt 
equally  ill  at  ease. 

Having  purchased  his  stamp  and  eaten  supper,  he 
was  wandering  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  street — 
that  being  the  only  pleasure  and  recourse  of  an  Ari- 
zona town  outside  the  doors  of  a  saloon — when  in  the 
medley  of  heterogeneous  sounds  he  heard  a  familiar 
voice  boom  out  and  as  abruptly  stop.  It  was  evening 
and  the  stores  were  closed,  but  various  citizens  still  sat 
along  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  smoking  and  talking 
in  the  semi-darkness.  Hardy  paused  and  listened 
a  moment.  The  voice  which  he  had  heard  was  that  of 
no  ordinary  man;  it  was  deep  and  resonant,  with  a 
rough,  overbearing  note  almost  military  in  its  brusque- 

[151] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ness;  but  it  had  ceased  and  another  voice,  low  and 
protesting,  had  taken  its  place.  In  the  gloom  he 
could  just  make  out  the  forms  of  the  two  men,  sitting 
on  their  heels  against  the  wall  and  engaged  in  a 
one-sided  argument.  The  man  with  the  Southern 
drawl  was  doing  all  the  talking,  but  as  Hardy  passed 
by,  the  other  cut  in  on  him  again. 

"Well,"  he  demanded  in  masterful  tones,  "what  ye 
goin'  to  do  about  it?"  Then,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  he  exclaimed: 

"Hello,  there,  Mr.  Hardy!" 

"Hello,"  responded  Hardy.  "Who  is  this,  any- 
way?" 

"Jim  Swope,"  replied  the  voice,  with  dignified 
directness.  "What  're  you  doing  in  these  parts?" 

"Came  down  to  buy  a  postage  stamp,"  replied 
Hardy,  following  a  habit  he  had  of  telling  the  truth  in 
details. 

"Huh!"  grunted  Swope.  "It's  a  wonder  you 
would  n't  go  to  Bender  for  it — that  Jew  over  there 
might  make  you  a  rate!" 

"Nope,"  responded  Hardy,  ignoring  the  too-evi- 
dent desire  of  the  Moroni  storekeeper  to  draw  him 
into  an  argument.  "He  could  n't  do  it— they  say  the 
Government  loses  money  every  time  it  sells  one.  Nice 
town  you  Ve  got  down  here,"  he  remarked,  by  way  of 

[152] 


MORONI 

a  parting  compliment ;  but  S wope  was  not  satisfied  to 
let  him  escape  so  easily. 

"Hold  on,  there!"  he  exclaimed,  rousing  up  from 
his  place.  "What 's  your  bloody  hurry?  Come  on 
back  here  and  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Thomas — Mr. 
Thomas  is  my  boss  herder  up  in  Apache  County. 
Thinking  of  bringing  him  down  here  next  Fall,"  he 
added  laconically,  and  by  the  subtle  change  in  his 
voice  Hardy  realized  intuitively  that  that  move  had 
been  the  subject  of  their  interrupted  argument. 
More  than  that,  he  felt  vaguely  that  he  himself  was 
somehow  involved  in  the  discussion,  the  more  so  as 
Mr.  Thomas  balked  absolutely  at  shaking  hands  with 
him. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Thomas  will  find  it  convenient  to  stop 
at  the  ranch,"  he  murmured  pleasantly,  "but  don't  let 
me  interfere  with  your  business." 

"Well,  I  guess  that 's  all  to-night,  Shep,"  remarked 
Swope,  taking  charge  of  the  situation.  "I  jest  wanted 
you  to  meet  Hardy  while  you  was  together.  This  is 
the  Mr.  Hardy,  of  the  Dos  S  outfit,  you  understand," 
he  continued,  "and  a  white  cowman!  If  you  have  to 
go  across  his  range,  go  quick — and  tell  your  men  the 
same.  I  want  them  dam'  tail-twisters  up  in  that 
Four  Peaks  country  to  know  that  it  pays  to  be  decent 
to  a  sheepman,  and  I  'm  goin'  to  show  some  of  'em, 

[153] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

too,  before  I  git  through!  But  any  time  my  sheep 
happen  to  git  on  your  range,  Mr.  Hardy,"  he  added 
reassuringly,  "you  jest  order  'em  off,  and  Mr.  Thomas 
here  will  see  to  it  that  they  go!" 

He  turned  upon  his  boss  herder  with  a  menacing 
gesture,  as  if  charging  him  with  silence,  and  Thomas, 
whose  sole  contribution  to  the  conversation  had  been 
a  grunt  at  the  end,  swung  about  and  ambled  sullenly 
off  up  the  street. 

"Feelin'  kinder  bad  to-night,"  explained  Swope,  as 
his  mayordomo  butted  into  the  swinging  doors  of  a 
saloon  and  disappeared,  "but  you  remember  what  I 
said  about  them  sheep.  How  do  things  look  up  your 
way?"  he  inquired.  "Feed  pretty  good?" 

"It 's  getting  awfully  dry,"  replied  Hardy  non- 
committally.  "1  suppose  your  sheep  are  up  on  the 
Black  Mesa  by  this  time." 

"limp!"  responded  the  sheepman,  and  then  there 
was  a  long  pause.  "Sit  down,"  he  said  at  last,  squat- 
ting upon  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  "I  want  to  talk 
business  with  you." 

He  lit  a  short  black  pipe  and  leaned  back  comfort- 
ably against  a  post. 

"You  seem  to  be  a  pretty  smooth  young  feller,"  he 
remarked,  patronizingly.  "How  long  have  you  been 
in  these  parts?  Two  months,  eh?  How 'd  Judge 
Ware  come  to  get  a-hold  of  you?" 

[154] 


MORONI 

"Just  picked  me  up  down  at  Bender,"  replied 
Hardy. 

"Oh,  jest  picked  you  up,  hey?  I  thought  mebby 
you  was  some  kin  to  him.  Ain't  interested  in  the 
cattle,  are  you?  Well,  I  jest  thought  you  might  be, 
being  put  in  over  Jeff  that  way,  you  know.  Nice  boy, 
that,  but  hot-headed  as  a  goat.  He  11  be  making  hair 
bridles  down  in  Yuma  some  day,  I  reckon.  His  old 
man  was  the  same  way.  So  you  ain't  no  kin  to  the 
judge  and  Ve  got  no  int'rest  in  the  cattle,  either,  eh? 
H'm,  how  long  do  you  figure  on  holding  down  that 
job?" 

"Don't  know,"  replied  Hardy;  "might  quit  to-day 
or  get  fired  to-morrow.  It 's  a  good  place,  though." 

"Not  the  only  one,  though,"  suggested  the  sheep- 
man shrewdly,  "not  by  a  dam'  sight !  Ever  investigate 
the  sheep  business?  No?  Then  you've  overlooked 
something !  I  Ve  lived  in  this  country  for  nigh 
onto  twenty  years,  and  followed  most  every  line  of 
business,  but  I  did  n't  make  my  pile  punching  cows, 
nor  running  a  store,  neither — I  made  it  raising  sheep. 
Started  in  with  nothing  at  the  time  of  the  big  drought 
in  '92,  herding  on  shares.  Sheep  did  well  in  them 
good  years  that  followed,  and  first  thing  I  knew  I 
was  a  sheepman.  Now  I  Ve  got  forty  thousand  head, 
and  I  'm  making  a  hundred  per  cent  on  my  invest- 
ment every  year.  Of  course,  if  there  comes  a  drought 

[155] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

1 11  lose  half  of  'em,  but  did  you  ever  sit  down  and 
figure  out  a  hundred  per  cent  a  year?  Well,  five 
thousand  this  year  is  ten  next  year,  and  ten  is  twenty 
the  next  year,  and  the  twenty  looks  like  forty  thousand 
fdaMars  at  the  end  of  three  years.  That 's  quite  a  jag 
'-of  money,  eh?  I  won't  say  what  it  would  be  in  three 
years  more,  but  here  's  the  point.  You  're  a  young 
man  and  out  to  make  a  stake,  I  suppose,  like  the  rest 
of  'em.  What 's  the  use  of  wasting  your  time  and 
energy  trying  to  hold  that  bunch  of  half -starved  cows 
together?  What 's  the  use  of  going  into  a  poor  busi- 
ness, man,  when  there 's  a  better  business ;  and  I  '11 
tell  you  right  now,  the  sheep  business  is  the  coming 
industry  of  Arizona.  The  sheepmen  are  going  to 
own  this  country,  from  Flag  to  the  Mexican  line,  and 
you  might  as  well  git  on  the  boat,  boy,  before  it 's  too 
late." 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  his  points  to  sink 
home ;  then  he  reached  out  and  tapped  his  listener  con- 
fidentially on  the  knee. 

"Hardy,"  he  said,  "I  like  your  style.  You  Ve  got 
a  head,  and  you  know  how  to  keep  your  mouth  shut. 
More  'n  that,  you  don't  drink.  A  man  like  you 
could  git  to  be  a  boss  sheep-herder  in  six  months ;  you 
could  make  a  small  fortune  in  three  years  and  never 
know  you  was  workin'.  You  don't  need  to  work", 
.boy;  I  kin  git  a  hundred  men  to  work — what  I  want 

[156] 


MORONI 

is  a  man  that  can  think.  Now,  say,  I  'm  goin'  to  need 
a  man  pretty  soon — come  around  and  see  me  some 
time." 

"All  right,"  said  Hardy,  reluctantly,  "but  I  might 
as  well  tell  you  now  that  I  'm  satisfied  where  I  am." 

"Satisfied!"  ripped  out  Swope,  with  an  oath. 
"Satisfied!  Why,  man  alive,  you  're  jest  hanging  on 
Ky  your  eyebrows  up  there  at  Hidden  Water!  You 
have  n't  got  nothin' ;  you  don't  even  own  the  house 
you  live  in.  I  could  go  up  there  to-morrow  and  file  on 
that  land  and  you  could  n't  do  a  dam'  thing.  Judge 
Ware  thought  he  was  pretty  smooth  when  he  euchred 
me  out  of  that  place,  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  boy — and 
you  can  tell  him,  if  you  want  to — that  Old  Man  Win- 
ship  never  held  no  title  to  that  place,  and  it 's  public 
land  to-day.  That's  all  public  land  up  there;  there 
ain't  a  foot  of  land  in  the  Four  Peaks  country  that  I 
can't  run  my  sheep  over  if  I  want  to,  and  keep  within 
my  legal  rights.  So  that 's  where  you  're  at,  Mr. 
Hardy,  if  you  want  to  know!" 

He  stopped  and  rammed  a  cut  of  tobacco  into  his 
pipe,  while  Hardy  tapped  his  boot  meditatively. 
"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  that 's  the  way  things  are, 
I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  not  sheeping  us  out  this 
Spring.  Of  course,  I  have  n't  been  in  the  country 
long,  and  I  don't  know  much  about  these  matters,  but 
I  tried  to  accommodate  you  all  I  could,  thinking — " 

[157] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"That  ain't  the  point,"  broke  in  Swope,  smoking 
fiercely,  "I  ain't  threatening  ye,  and  I  appreciate  your 
hospitality — but  here  's  the  point.  What 's  the  use  of 
your  monkeying  along  up  there  on  a  job  that  is  sure  to 
play  out,  when  you  can  go  into  a  better  business? 
Answer  me  that,  now!" 

But  Hardy  only  meditated  in  silence.  It  was 
beyond  contemplation  that  he  should  hire  himself  out 
as  a  sheep-herder,  but  if  he  said  so  frankly  it  might 
call  down  the  wrath  of  Jim  Swope  upon  both  him  and 
the  Dos  S.  So  he  stood  pat  and  began  to  fish  for 
information. 

"Maybe  you  just  think  my  job  is  going  to  play 
out,"  he  suggested,  diplomatically.  "If  I  'd  go  to  a 
cowman,  now,  or  ask  Judge  Ware,  they  might  tell  me 
I  had  it  cinched  for  life." 

Swope  puffed  smoke  for  a  minute  in  a  fulminating, 
(dangerous  silence. 

"Huh!"  he  said.  "I  can  dead  easy  answer  for  that. 
Your  job,  Mr.  Hardy,  lasts  jest  as  long  as  I  want  it 
to — and  no  longer.  Now,  you  can  figure  that  out  for 
yourself.  But  I  'd  jest  like  to  ask  you  a  question, 
since  you  're  so  smart ;  how  come  all  us  sheepmen 
kept  off  your  upper  range  this  year?" 

"Why,"  said  Hardy  innocently,  "I  tried  to  be 
friendly  and  treated  you  as  white  as  I  could,  and  I 
suppose — " 

[158] 


MORONI 

"Yes,  you  suppose,"  sneered  Swope  grimly,  "but 
I  '11  jest  tell  you;  we  wanted  you  to  hold  your  job." 

"That 's  very  kind  of  you,  I  'm  sure,"  murmured 
Hardy. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  sheepman  sardonically,  "it  is — 
dam'  kind  of  us.  But  now  the  question  is :  What  ye 
goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"Why,  in  what  way?" 

"Well,  now,"  began  Swope,  patiently  feeling  his 
way,  "suppose,  jest  for  instance,  that  some  fool  Mexi- 
can herder  should  accidentally  get  in  on  your  upper 
range — would  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  put  him  off?" 

"Well,"  said  Hardy,  hedging,  "I  really  had  n't  con- 
sidered the  matter  seriously.  Of  course,  if  Judge 
Ware—" 

"The  judge  is  in  San  Francisco,"  put  in  Swope 
curtly.  "Now,  suppose  that  all  of  us  sheepmen  should 
decide  that  we  wanted  some  of  that  good  feed  up  on 
Bronco  Mesa,  and,  suppose,  furthermore,  that  we 
should  all  go  up  there,  as  we  have  a  perfect  legal  right 
to  do,  what  would  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Hardy  politely. 

"Well,  supposen  I  dropped  a  stick  of  dynamite 
under  you,"  burst  out  Swope  hoarsely,  "would  you 
jump?  Speak  up,  man,  you  know  what  I  'm  talking 
about.  You  don't  think  you  can  stand  off  the  whole 
Sheepmen's  Protective  Association,  do  you?  Well, 

[159] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

then,  will  ye  abide  by  the  law  and  give  us  our  legal 
rights  or  will  ye  fight  like  a  dam'  fool  and  git  sent  to 
Yuma  for  your  pains?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know, 
and  when  you  talk  to  me  you  talk  to  the  whole  Sheep- 
men's Association,  with  money  enough  in  its  treasury 
to  send  up  every  cowman  in  the  Four  Peaks  country ! 
What  I  want  to  know  is  this — will  you  fight  ?" 

"I  might,"  answered  Hardy  quietly. 

"Oh,  you  might,  hey?"  jeered  the  sheepman,  tap- 
ping his  pipe  ominously  on  the  sidewalk.  "You 
might,  he-ey?  Well,  look  at  Jeff  Creede — he  fought 
— and  what 's  he  got  to  show  for  it?  Look  at  his  old 
man — he  fought — and  where  is  he  now?  Tell  me 
that! 

"But,  say,  now,"  he  exclaimed,  changing  his  tone 
abruptly,  "this  ain't  what  I  started  to  talk  about.  I 
want  to  speak  with  you,  Mr.  Hardy,  on  a  matter  of 
business.  You  jest  think  them  things  over  until  I  see 
you  again — and,  of  course,  all  this  is  on  the  q.  t.  But 
now  let 's  talk  business.  When  you  want  to  buy  a 
postage  stamp  you  come  down  here  to  Moroni,  don't 
j^ou?  And  why?  Why,  because  it's  near,  sure! 
But  when  you  want  a  wagon-load  of  grub — and  there 
ain't  no  one  sells  provisions  cheaper  than  I  do,  beans 
four-fifty,  bacon  sixteen  cents,  flour  a  dollar-ninety, 
everything  as  reasonable — you  haul  it  clean  across  the 
desert  from  Bender.  That  easy  adds  a  cent  a  pound 

[160] 


MORONI 

on  every  ton  you  pull,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  time. 
Well,  what  I  want  to  know  is  this :  Does  Einstein  sell 
you  grub  that  much  cheaper?  Take  flour,  for 
instance — what  does  that  cost  you?" 

eel  don't  know,"  answered  Hardy,  whose  anger  was 
rising  under  this  unwarranted  commercial  badgering. 
"Same  as  with  you,  I  suppose — dollar-ninety." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Swope  triumphantly,  "and  the 
extra  freight  on  a  sack  would  be  fifty  cents,  would  n't 
it — a  cent  a  pound,  and  a  fifty-pound  sack!  Well, 
now  say,  Hardy,  we  're  good  friends,  you  know,  and 
all  that— and  Jasp  and  me  steered  all  them  sheep 
around  you,  you  recollect — what 's  the  matter  with 
your  buying  your  summer  supplies  off  of  me?  I  '11 
guarantee  to  meet  any  price  that  Bender  Sheeny  can 
make — and,  of  course,  I  '11  do  what 's  right  by  you — 
but,  by  Joe,  I  think  you  owe  it  to  me!" 

He  paused  and  waited  impatiently  for  his  answer, 
but  once  more  Hardy  balked  him. 

"I  don't  doubt  there  's  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say, 
Mr.  Swope,"  he  said,  not  without  a  certain  weariness, 
"but  you  '11  have  to  take  that  matter  up  with  Judge 
Ware." 

"Don't  you  have  the  ordering  of  the  supplies?" 
demanded  Swope  sharply. 

"Yes,  but  he  pays  for  them.  All  I  do  is  to  order 
what  I  want  and  O.  K.  the  bills.  My  credit  is  good 
11  [161] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

with  Einstein,  and  the  rate  lies  between  him  and 
Judge  Ware." 

"Well,  your  credit  is  good  here,  too,"  replied 
Swope  acidly,  "but  I  see  you  'd  rather  trade  with  a 
Jew  than  stand  in  with  your  friends,  any  day." 

"I  tell  you  I  have  n't  got  a  thing  to  do  with  it," 
replied  Hardy  warmly.  "I  take  my  orders  from 
Judge  Ware,  and  if  he  tells  me  to  trade  here  I  '11  be 
glad  to  do  so — it  '11  save  me  two  days'  freighting — 
but  I  'm  not  the  boss  by  any  means." 

"No,  nor  you  ain't  much  of  a  supe,  neither," 
growled  Swope  morosely.  "In  fact,  I  consider  you  a 
dam'  bum  supe.  Some  people,  now,  after  they  had 
been  accommodated,  would  take  a  little  trouble,  but 
I  notice  you  ain't  breaking  your  back  for  me.  Hell, 
no,  you  don't  care  if  I  never  make  a  deal.  But  that 's 
all  right,  Mr.  Hardy,  I  '11  try  and  do  as  much  for  you 
about  that  job  of  yourn." 

"Well,  you  must  think  I  'm  stuck  on  that  job," 
cried  Hardy  hotly,  "the  way  you  talk  about  it !  You 
seem  to  have  an  idea  that  if  I  get  let  out  it  '11  make 
some  difference  to  me,  but  I  might  as  well  tell  you 
right  now,  Mr.  Swope,  that  it  won't.  I  've  got  a  good 
horse  and  I  Ve  got  money  to  travel  on,  and  I  'm  just 
holding  this  job  to  accommodate  Judge  Ware.  So 
if  you  have  any  idea  of  taking  it  out  on  him  you  can 
just  say  the  word  and  I  '11  quit!" 

[162] 


MORONI 

"Um-m!"  muttered  the  sheepman,  taken  aback  by 
this  sudden  burst  of  temper,  "y°u  're  a  hot-headed 
Hoy,  ain't  you?"  He  surveyed  him  critically  in  the 
half  light,  as  if  appraising  his  value  as  a  fighter,  and 
then  proceeded  in  a  more  conciliatory  manner.  "But 
you  must  n't  let  your  temper  git  away  with  you  like 
that,"  he  said.  "You  're  likely  to  say  something 
you  '11  be  sorry  for  later." 

"Oh, 'I  don't  know,"  retorted  Hardy.  "It  might 
relieve  my  mind  some.  I  Ve  only  been  in  this  country 
a  few  months,  but  if  a  sheepman  is  the  only  man  that 
has  any  legal  or  moral  rights  I  'd  like  to  know  about 
it.  You  talk  about  coming  in  on  our  upper  range, 
having  a  right  to  the  whole  country,  and  all  that. 
Now  I  'd  like  to  ask  you  whether  in  your  opinion  a 
cowman  has  got  a  right  to  live?" 

"Oh,  tut,  tut,  now,"  protested  Swope,  "you  're 
gettin'  excited." 

"Well,  of  course  I  'm  getting  excited,"  replied 
Hardy,  with  feeling.  "You  start  in  by  telling  me  the 
sheepmen  are  going  to  take  the  whole  country,  from 
Flag  to  the  line;  then  you  ask  me  what  I  'd  do  if  a 
Mexican  came  in  on  us;  then  you  say  you  can  sheep 
us  out  any  time  you  want  to,  and  what  am  I  going  to 
do  about  it!  Is  that  the  way  you  talk  to  a  man  who 
has  done  his  best  to  be  your  friend?" 

"I  never  said  we  was  going  to  sheep  you  out," 

[163] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

retorted  the  sheepman  sullenly.  "And  if  I  'd  V 
thought  for  a  minute  you  would  take  on  like  this  about 
it  I  'd  've  let  you  go  bust  for  your  postage  stamps." 

"I  know  you  did  n't  say  it,"  said  Hardy,  "but  you 
hinted  it  good  and  strong,  all  right.  And  when  a  man 
comes  as  near  to  it  as  you  have  I  think  I  Ve  got  a  right 
to  ask  him  straight  out  what  his  intentions  are.  Now 
how  about  it — are  you  going  to  sheep  us  out  next  Fall 
or  are  you  going  to  give  us  a  chance?" 

"Oh  hell!"  burst  out  Swope,  in  a  mock  fury,  "I  'm 
never  going  to  talk  to  you  any  more !  You  're  crazy, 
man!  I  never  said  I  was  going  to  sheep  you  out!" 

"No,"  retorted  Hardy  dryly,  "and  you  never  said 
you  was  n't,  either." 

"Yes,  I  did,  too,"  spat  back  Swope,  seizing  at  a 
straw.  "Did  n't  I  introduce  you  to  my  boss  herder 
and  tell  him  to  keep  off  your  range?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Hardy  coldly.  "Did 
you?" 

For  a  moment  the  sheepman  sat  rigid  in  the  dark- 
ness. Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  cursing. 

"Well,  you  can  jest  politely  go  to  hell,"  he  said, 
with  venomous  deliberation,  and  racked  off  down  the 
street. 


[164] 


CHAPTER    X 


"FEED  MY  SHEEP" 


slow,  monotonous  days  of  Summer  crept 
listlessly  by  like  dreams  which,  having  neither 
beginning  nor  end,  pass  away  into  nothingness,  leav- 
ing only  a  dim  memory  of  restlessness  and  mystery. 
In  the  relentless  heat  of  noon-day  the  earth  seemed 
to  shimmer  and  swim  in  a  radiance  of  its  own;  at 
evening  the  sun  set  in  a  glory  incomparable;  and  at 
dawn  it  returned  to  its  own.  Then  in  the  long 
breathless  hours  the  cows  sought  out  the  scanty 
shadow  of  the  canon  wall,  sprawling  uneasily  in  the 
sand;  the  lizards  crept  far  back  into  the  crevices  of 
the  rocks;  the  birds  lingered  about  the  water  holes, 
throttling  their  tongues,  and  all  the  world  took  on  a 
silence  that  was  almost  akin  to  death.  As  the  Sum- 
mer rose  to  its  climax  a  hot  wind  breathed  in  from 
the  desert,  clean  and  pure,  but  withering  in  its  inten- 
sity ;  the  great  bowlders,  superheated  in  the  glare  of 
day,  irradiated  the  stored-up  energy  of  the  sun  by 
night  until  even  the  rattlesnakes,  their  tough  hides 
scorched  through  by  the  burning  sands,  sought  out 
their  winter  dens  to  wait  for  a  touch  of  frost.  There 

[165] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

was  only  one  creature  in  all  that  heat-smitten  land 
that  defied  the  sway  of  the  Sun-God  and  went  his 
way  unheeding — man,  the  indomitable,  the  conqueror 
of  mountains  and  desert  and  sea. 

When  the  sun  was  hottest,  then  was  the  best  time  to 
pursue  the  black  stallion  of  Bronco  Mesa,  chasing 
him  by  circuitous  ways  to  the  river  where  he  and  his 
band  could  drink.  But  though  more  than  one  fine 
mare  and  suckling,  heavy  with  water,  fell  victim,  the 
black  stallion,  having  thought  and  intelligence  like 
a  man,  plunged  through  the  water,  leaving  his  thirst 
unquenched,  refusing  with  a  continency  and  stead- 
fastness rare  even  among  men  to  sell  his  liberty  at 
any  price.  In  the  round  corral  at  Hidden  Water 
there  was  roping  and  riding  as  Creede  and  Hardy 
gentled  their  prizes;  in  the  cool  evenings  they  rode 
forth  along  the  Alamo,  counting  the  cows  as  they 
came  down  to  water  or  doctoring  any  that  were  sick; 
and  at  night  they  lay  on  their  cots  beneath  the  ramada 
telling  long  stories  till  they  fell  asleep. 

At  intervals  of  a  month  or  more  Hardy  rode  down 
to  Moroni  and  each  time  he  brought  back  some  book 
of  poems,  or  a  novel,  or  a  bundle  of  magazines;  but 
if  he  received  any  letters  he  never  mentioned  it; 
Sometimes  he  read  in  the  shade,  his  face  sobered  to 
a  scholarly  repose,  and  when  the  mood  came  and  he 

[166] 


'FEED    MY     SHEEP' 

was  alone  he  wrote  verses — crude,  feverish,  unfinished 
e — and  destroyed  them,  furtively. 

He  bore  his  full  share  of  the  rough  work,  whether 
riding  or  horse-breaking  or  building  brush  corrals, 
but  while  he  responded  to  every  mood  of  his  change- 
able companion  he  hid  the  whirl  of  emotion  which 
possessed  him,  guarding  the  secret  of  his  heart  even 
when  writing  to  Lucy  Ware;  and  slowly,  as  the 
months  crept  by,  the  wound  healed  over  and  left  him 
whole. 

At  last  the  days  grew  shorter,  the  chill  came  back 
into  the  morning  air,  and  the  great  thundercaps 
which  all  Summer  had  mantled  the  Peaks,  scattering 
precarious  and  insufficient  showers  across  the  parch- 
ing lowlands,  faded  away  before  the  fresh  breeze  from 
the  coast.  Autumn  had  come,  and,  though  the  feed 
was  scant,  Creede  started  his  round-up  early,  to  finish 
ahead  of  the  sheep.  Out  on  The  Rolls  the  wild  and 
runty  cows  were  hiding  their  new-born  calves;  the 
spring  twos  were  grown  to  the  raw-boned  dignity  of 
steers;  and  all  must  be  gathered  quickly,  before  the 
dust  arose  in  the  north  and  the  sheep  mowed  down 
the  summer  grass.  Once  more  from  their  distant 
ranches  the  mountain  men  trailed  in  behind  their 
horses;  the  rodeo  hands  dropped  in  from  nowhere, 
mysteriously,  talking  loudly  of  high  adventures 

[167] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

with  the  indisputable  marks  of  Mormon  hay-forks  on 
their  thumbs. 

Before  their  restless  energy  The  Rolls  were  swept 
bare  of  market  stock,  and  the  upper  end  of  the  mesa 
as  well,  before  the  first  sheep  dust  showed  against  the 
hills.  The  rodeo  outfit  left  Carrizo  and  came  down 
to  Hidden  Water,  driving  their  herd  before  them,  and 
still  no  sheep  appeared.  So  long  had  they  strained 
their  eyes  for  nothing  that  the  cowmen  from  the  north 
became  uneasy,  dropping  out  one  by  one  to  return 
to  their  ranches  for  fear  that  the  sheep  had  crept  in 
and  laid  waste  their  pastures  and  corrals.  Yet  the 
round-up  ended  without  a  band  in  sight,  where  before 
The  Rolls  had  been  ploughed  into  channels  by  their 
multitude  of  feet. 

In  a  slow  fever  of  apprehension  Hardy  rode  cease- 
lessly along  the  rim  of  Bronco  Mesa,  without  finding 
so  much  as  a  track.  Throughout  that  long  month  of 
watching  and  waiting  the  memory  of  his  conversation 
with  Jim  Swope  had  haunted  him,  and  with  a  sinister 
boding  of  impending  evil  he  had  ridden  far  afield, 
even  to  the  lower  crossing  at  Pablo  Moreno's,  where 
a  few  Mexicans  and  Basques  were  fording  the  shallow 
river.  Not  one  of  those  veiled  threats  and  intima- 
tions had  he  confided  to  Creede,  for  the  orders  from 
Judge  Ware  had  been  for  peace  and  Jeff  was  hot- 
headed and  hasty;  but  in  his  own  mind  Hardy 

[168] 


"FEED    MY     SHEEP' 

pictured  a  solid  phalanx  of  sheep,  led  by  Jasp  Swope 
and  his  gun-fighting  Chihuahuanos,  drifting  relent- 
lessly in  over  the  unravaged  mesa.  Even  that  he 
could  endure,  trusting  to  some  appeal  or  protest  to 
save  him  from  the  ultimate  disaster,  but  the  strain  of 
this  ominous  waiting  was  more  than  Hardy's  nerves 
could  stand. 

As  the  town  herd  was  put  on  the  long  trail  for 
Bender  and  the  round-up  hands  began  to  spit  dry 
for  their  first  drink,  the  premonition  of  evil  conquered 
him  and  he  beckoned  Creede  back  out  of  the  rout. 

"I  've  got  a  hunch,"  he  said,  "that  these  sheepmen 
are  hanging  back  until  you  boys  are  gone,  in  order  to 
raid  the  upper  range.  I  don't  know  anything,  you 
understand,  but  I  'm  looking  for  trouble.  How  does 
it  look  to  you?" 

"Well,"  answered  Creede  sombrely,  "I  don't  mind 
tellin'  you  that  this  is  a  new  one  on  me.  It 's  the  first 
fall  gather  that  I  can  remember  when  I  did  n't  have  a 
round-up  with  a  sheepman  or  two.  They  're  willin' 
enough  to  give  us  the  go-by  in  the  Spring,  when 
there  's  grass  everywhere,  but  when  they  come  back 
over  The  Rolls  in  the  Fall  and  see  what  they  Ve  done 
to  the  feed — well,  it 's  like  fightin'  crows  out  of  a 
watermelon  patch  to  protect  that  upper  range. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  think  of  is  they  may  be 
held  back  by  this  dry  weather.  But,  I  tell  you, 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Tlufe,"  he  added,  "it  's  jest  as  well  I  'm  goin' — one 
man  can  tell  'em  to  he'p  themselves  as  good  as  two, 
and  I  might  get  excited.  You  know  your  orders — 
and  I  reckon  the  sheepmen  do,  too,  's  f  er  's  that  goes. 
They  're  not  so  slow,  if  they  do  git  lousy.  But  my 
God,  boy,  it  hurts  my  feelin's  to  think  of  you  all 
alone  up  here,  tryin'  to  appeal  to  Jasp  Swope's 
better  nature."  He  twisted  his  lips,  and  shrugged 
his  huge  shoulders  contemptuously.  Then  without 
enthusiasm  he  said:  "Well,  good  luck,"  and  rode 
away  after  his  cattle. 

Creede's  scorn  for  this  new  policy  of  peace  had 
never  been  hidden,  although  even  in  his  worst  cursing 
spells  he  had  never  quite  named  the  boss.  But  those 
same  orders,  if  they  ever  became  known,  would  call  in 
the  rapacious  sheepmen  like  vultures  to  a  feast,  and 
the  bones  of  his  cattle — that  last  sorry  remnant  of  his 
father's  herds — would  bleach  on  Bronco  Mesa  with 
the  rest,  a  mute  tribute  to  the  triumph  of  sheep. 

All  that  day  Hardy  rode  up  the  Alamo  until  he 
stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  Juate  and  looked  over 
the  divide  to  the  north,  and  still  there  were  no  sheep. 
Not  a  smoke,  not  a  dust  streak,  although  the  chill  of 
Autumn  was  in  the  air.  In  the  distant  Sierra  Blan- 
cas  the  snow  was  already  on  the  peaks  and  the  frosts 
lay  heavy  upon  the  black  mesa  of  the  Mogollons. 
Where  then  could  the  sheep  be,  the  tender,  gently 

[170] 


'FEED    MY     SHEEP' 

nurtured  sheep,  which  could  stand  neither  heat  in 
Summer  nor  cold  in  Winter,  but  must  always  travel, 
travel,  feeding  upon  the  freshest  of  green  grass  and 
leaving  a  desert  in  their  wake?  The  slow-witted 
Mexicans  and  Basques,  who  did  not  follow  the  lead  of 
the  Swopes,  had  returned  on  their  fall  migration  with 
the  regularity  of  animals,  but  all  those  cheery  herders 
for  whom  he  had  cooked  and  slaved — Bazan,  Mc- 
Donald, the  Swopes  and  their  kin,  who  used  the  upper 
ford — were  lost  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  them 
up. 

The  stars  were  shining  when  Hardy  came  in  sight 
of  the  ranch  .at  the  end  of  that  unprofitable  day,  and 
he  was  tired.  The  low  roof  of  the  house  rose  up 
gloomily  before  him,  but  while  he  was  riding  in  a 
hound  suddenly  raised  his  challenge  in  the  darkness. 
Instantly  his  yell  was  answered  by  a  chorus,  and  as 
Chapuli  swerved  from  the  rush  of  the  pack  the  door 
was  thrown  open  and  the  tall,  gaunt  form  of  Bill 
Johnson  stood  outlined  against  the  light. 

"Yea,  Ribs;  hey,  Rock;  down,  Ring!"  he  hollered. 
"Hey,  boys;  hey,  Suke!"  And  in  a  mighty  chorus  of 
hayings  the  long-eared  hounds  circled  about  and 
returned  to  the  feet  of  their  master,  wagging  their 
tails  but  not  abating  their  barking  one  whit.  Stand- 
ing bareheaded  in  the  doorway  with  his  hair  and  beard 
bushed  out  like  a  lion's  mane  Johnson  strove  by  kicks 

D71] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  curses  to  quiet  their  uproar,  shouting  again  and 
again  some  words  which  Hardy  could  not  catch. 

At  last,  grabbing  old  Suke,  the  leader  of  the  pack, 
by  an  ear,  he  slapped  her  until  her  yelpings  silenced 
the  rest;  then,  stepping  out  into  the  opening,  he  ex- 
claimed: 

"My  God,  Hardy,  is  that  you?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Hardy  impatiently.  "Why, 
what 's  the  matter?" 

"Sheep!"  shouted  Johnson,  throwing  out  his  hands 
wildly,  "thousands  of  'em,  millions  of  'em!" 

"Sheep — where?"  demanded  Hardy.  "Where  are 
they?" 

"They  're  on  your  upper  range,  boy,  and  more 
comin'  !" 

"What?"  cried  Hardy  incredulously.  "Why,  how 
did  they  get  up  there?  I  just  rode  the  whole  rim 
to-day!" 

"They  come  over  the  top  of  the  Four  Peaks," 
shouted  the  old  man,  shaking  with  excitement.  "Yes, 
sir,  over  the  top  of  the  Four  Peaks !  My  hounds  took 
after  a  lion  last  night,  and  this  mornin'  I  trailed  'em 
clean  over  into  the  middle  fork  where  they  had  'im 
treed.  He  jumped  down  and  run  when  I  come  up 
and  jist  as  we  was  hotfoot  after  him  we  run  spang 
into  three  thousand  head  of  sheep,  drifting  down  from 
the  pass,  and  six  greasers  and  a  white  man  in  the 

[172] 


"FEED     MY     SHEEP' 

rear  with  carbeens.  The  whole  dam'  outfit  is  comin' 
in  on  us.  But  we  can  turn  'em  yet!  Whar  's  Jeff 
and  the  boys?" 

"They  Ve  gone  to  town  with  the  cattle." 

"Well,  you  're  dished  then,"  said  the  old  man 
grimly.  "Might  as  well  put  up  your  horse  and  eat — 
I  'm  goin'  home  and  see  that  they  don't  none  of  'em 
git  in  on  me !" 

"Whose  sheep  were  they?"  inquired  Hardy,  as  he 
sat  down  to  a  hasty  meal. 

"Don't  ask  me,  boy,"  replied  Johnson.  "I  never 
had  time  to  find  out.  One  of  them  Mexicans  took  a 
shot  at  Rye  and  I  pulled  my  gun  on  him,  and  then 
the  boss  herder  he  jumped  in,  and  there  we  had  it, 
back  and  forth.  He  claimed  I  was  tryin  to  stompede 
his  sheep,  but  I  knowed  his  greaser  had  tried  to  shoot 
my  dog,  and  I  told  him  so !  And  I  told  him  further- 
more that  the  first  sheep  or  sheepman  that  p'inted  his 
head  down  the  Pocket  trail  would  stop  lead;  and 
every  one  tharafter,  as  long  as  I  could  draw  a  bead. 
And  by  Gawd,  I  mean  it!"  He  struck  his  gnarled 
fist  upon  the  table  till  every  tin  plate  jumped,  and  his 
fiery  eyes  burned  savagely  as  he  paced  about  the 
room.  y  <y- 

At  first  peep  of  dawn  Bill  Johnson  was  in  the 
saddle,  his  long-barrelled  revolver  thrust  pugnaciously 
into  his  boot,  his  30-30  carbine  across  his  arm,  and  his 

[173] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

hounds  slouching  dutifully  along  in  the  rear.  Close 
behind  followed  Hardy,  bound  for  the  Peaks,  but 
though  the  morning  was  cold  he  had  stripped  off  his 
coat  and  shaps,  and  everything  which  might  conceal  a 
weapon,  leaving  even  his  polished  Colt's  in  his 
blankets.  If  the  sheep  were  to  be  turned  now  it 
could  never  be  by  arms.  The  sheepmen  had  stolen  a 
march,  Creede  and  his  cowboys  were  far  away,  and 
his  only  hope  was  the  olive  branch  of  peace.  Yet  as 
he  spurred  up  the  Carrizo  trail  he  felt  helpless  and 
abused,  like  a  tried  soldier  who  is  sent  out  unarmed 
by  a  humanitarian  commander.  Only  one  weapon 
was  left  to  him — the  one  which  even  Jim  Swope  had 
noticed — his  head;  and  as  he  worked  along  up  the 
hogback  which  led  down  from  the  shoulder  of  the 
Four  Peaks  he  schooled  himself  to  a  Spartan  patience 
and  fortitude. 

At  last  from  a  high  cliff  which  overshadowed  the 
foroad  canon  of  the  middle  fork,  he  looked  down  and 
saw  the  sheep,  like  a  huge,  dirty-brown  blot,  pouring 
in  a  hundred  diverging  lines  down  the  valley  and 
feeding  as  they  came.  Higher  and  higher  up  the 
sides  the  old  ewes  fought  their  way,  plucking  at  the 
long  spears  of  grass  which  grew  among  the  rocks ;  and 
the  advance  guard,  hurrying  forward,  nipped  eagerly 
at  the  browse  and  foliage  as  they  passed,  until,  at  last, 
some  tempting  bush  detained  them  too  long  and  they 

[174] 


"FEED     MY     SHEEP 

were  swallowed  up  in  the  ruck.  Little  paths  ap- 
peared in  the  leaders'  wake,  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  bowlders ;  and  like  soldiers  the  sheep  fell  into  line, 
moving  forward  with  the  orderly  precision  of  an 
army.  A  herder  with  his  dogs  trailed  nonchalantly 
along  the  flank,  the  sun  glinting  from  his  carbine  as 
he  clambered  over  rocks,  and  in  the  rear  another  silent 
shepherd  followed  up  the  drag.  So  far  it  was  a 
peaceful  pastoral  scene,  but  behind  the  herd  where  the 
camp  rustler  and  his  burros  should  have  been  there 
was  a  posse  of  men,  and  each  man  carried  a  gun. 

Hardly  had  Chapuli  mounted  the  ridge  before 
every  head  was  raised ;  the  swarthy  Mexicans  unslung 
their  guns  with  a  flourish,  and  held  them  at  a  ready. 
Yet  for  half  an  hour  the  lone  horseman  sat  there  like 
a  statue,  and  if  he  resented  their  coming  or  saw  the 
dust  of  other  bands  behind,  he  made  no  sign.  Even 
when  the  guard  of  men  passed  beneath  him,  craning 
their  necks  uneasily,  he  still  remained  silent  and  im- 
mobile, like  a  man  who  has  councils  of  his  own  or 
leads  a  force  behind. 

The  leader  of  the  vanguard  of  the  sheep  was  a 
white  man,  and  not  unversed  in  the  principles  of 
war,  for  after  trailing  safely  through  the  box  of  the 
canon — where  a  single  rock  displaced  would  kill  a 
score  of  sheep,  and  where  the  lone  horseman  had  he 
so  willed  could  have  potted  half  of  the  invaders  from 

[175] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  heights — he  turned  his  herd  up  a  side  canon  to 
the  west  and  hastily  pitched  his  camp  on  a  ridge. 
As  the  heat  of  the  day  came  on,  the  other  bands  up  the 
canon  stopped  also,  and  when  the  faint  smoke  showed 
Hardy  that  the  camp  rustlers  were  cooking  dinner, 
he  turned  and  rode  for  the  leader's  camp. 

Dinner  was  already  served — beans,  fried  mutton, 
and  bread,  spread  upon  a  greasy  canvas — and  the 
hungry  herders  were  shovelling  it  down  with  knives 
in  their  own  primitive  way  when  Hardy  rode  up  the 
slope.  As  he  came  into  camp  the  Chihuahuanos 
dropped  their  plates,  reached  for  their  guns,  and  stood 
in  awkward  postures  of  defence,  some  wagging  their 
big  heads  in  a  braggartly  defiance,  others,  their  cour- 
age waning,  grinning  in  the  natural  shame  of  the 
peasant.  In  Hardy  they  recognized  a  gentleman  of 
categoria — and  he  never  so  much  as  glanced  at  them 
as  he  reined  in  his  spirited  horse.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  lone  white  man,  their  commander,  who  stood 
by  the  fire  regarding  him  with  cold  suspicion,  and  to 
whom  he  bowed  distantly. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  by  way  of  introduction, 
and  the  sheepman  blinked  his  eyes  in  reply. 

"Whose  sheep  are  those?"  continued  Hardy,  com- 
ing to  the  point  with  masterful  directness,  and  once 
more  the  boss  sheepman  surveyed  him  with  suspicion. 

"Mine,"  he  said,  and  Hardy  returned  his  stare  with 

[176] 


Put  up  them  guns,  you   gawky  fools  !     This 
man  ain't  going  to  eat  ye  1" 


"FEED    MY    SHEEP' 

a  glance  which,  while  decorously  veiled,  indicated  that 
he  knew  he  lied.  The  man  was  a  stranger  to  him, 
rather  tall  and  slender,  with  drawn  lips  and  an  eye 
that  never  wavered.  His  voice  was  tense  with  excite- 
ment and  he  kept  his  right  thumb  hooked  carelessly 
into  the  corner  of  his  pocket,  not  far  from  the  grip 
of  a  revolver.  As  soon  as  he  spoke  Hardy  knew 
him. 

"You  are  Mr.  Thomas,  aren't  you?"  he  inquired, 
as  if  he  had  no  thought  of  trouble.  "I  believe  I  met 
you  once,  down  in  Moroni." 

"limp!"  grunted  Mr.  Thomas  unsociably,  and  at 
that  moment  one  of  the  Mexicans,  out  of  awkward- 
ness, dropped  his  gun.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up 
a  slow  smile  crept  over  the  cowman's  lips,  a  smile 
which  expressed  polite  amusement  along  with  a 
measured  contempt — and  the  boss  herder  was  stung 
with  a  nameless  shame  at  the  false  play. 

"Put  up  them  guns,  you  dam'  gawky  fools!"  he 
yelled  in  a  frenzy  of  rage.  "Put  'em  up,  I  say.  This 
man  ain't  goin'  to  eat  ye!"  And  though  the  poor 
browbeaten  Chihuahuanos  understood  not  a  word  of 
English  they  felt  somehow  that  they  had  been  over- 
zealous  and  shuffled  back  to  their  blankets,  like  watch- 
dogs that  had  been  rebuked. 

"Now,"  said  the  sheepman,  taking  his  hand  from 
his  gun,  "what  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Hardy?" 
12  [177] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Well,"  responded  Hardy,  "of  course  there  are 
several  things  you  might  do  to  accommodate  me,  but 
maybe  you  would  n't  mind  telling  me  how  you  got 
in  here,  just  for  instance?" 

"Always  glad  to  'commodate — where  I  can,  of 
course,"  returned  the  sheepman  grimly.  "I  came  in 
over  the  top  of  them  Four  Peaks  yonder." 

"Urn,"  said  Hardy,  glancing  up  at  the  rocky  walls. 
"Then  you  must  Ve  had  hooks  on  your  eyebrows,  for 
sure.  I  suppose  the  rest  of  the  family  is  coming,  too! 
And,  by  the  way,  how  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Swope?" 

He  appended  this  last  with  an  artless  smile,  quite 
lacking  in  bitterness,  but  somehow  the  boss  herder  felt 
himself  discredited  by  the  inquiry,  as  if  he  were  con- 
sorting with  thieves.  It  was  the  old  shame  of  the 
sheepman,  the  shame  which  comes  to  the  social  out- 
cast, and  burns  upon  the  cheek  of  the  dishonored 
bastard,  but  which  is  seared  deepest  into  the  heart 
of  the  friendless  herder,  the  Ishmaelite  of  the  cow- 
country,  whose  hand  is  against  every  man  and  every 
man's  against  him.  Hunger  and  thirst  he  can 
endure,  and  the  weariness  of  life,  but  to  have  all  men 
turn  away  from  him,  to  answer  him  grudgingly,  to 
feed  him  at  their  table,  but  refuse  themselves  to  eat, 
this  it  is  which  turns  his  heart  to  bitterness  and  makes 
him  a  man  to  be  feared.  As  Thomas  had  looked  at 
this  trim  young  cowboy,  smooth-shaven  and  erect,  sit- 

[178] 


"FEED     MY     SHEEP' 

ting  astride  a  blooded  horse  which  snorted  and  pawed 
the  ground  delicately,  and  then  had  glanced  at  the 
low  and  brutal  Mexicans  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast, 
a  blind  fury  had  swept  over  him,  wreaking  its  force 
upon  his  own  retainers;  and  now,  when  by  implica- 
tion he  was  classed  with  Jim  Swope,  he  resented  it 
still  more  bitterly. 

"Dam'fino,"  he  answered  sullenly.  "Have  n't  seen 
'im  for  a  month." 

"Oh,  is  n't  he  with  you  this  trip?"  asked  Hardy,  in 
surprise*  "I  had  hoped  that  I  might  find  him  up 
here."  There  was  a  suggestion  of  irony  in  his  words 
which  was  not  lost  upon  the  mayordomo,  but  Thomas 
let  the  remark  pass  in  silence. 

"Perhaps  his  brother"  Jasper  is  along,"  ventured 
Hardy.  "No?  Well,  that 's  Jim's  earmark  on 
those  sheep,  and  I  know  it.  What 's  the  matter?" 

"Matter  with  what?"  growled  Thomas  morosely. 

"Why,  with  Jim,  of  course.  I  thought  after  the 
pleasant  times  we  had  together  last  Spring  he  'd  be 
sure  to  come  around.  In  fact,"  he  added  meaningly, 
"I  Ve  been  looking  for  him." 

At  this  naive  statement,  the  sheepman  could  not 
restrain  a  smile. 

"You  don't  know  Jim  as  well  as  I  do,"  he  said,  and 
there  was  a  suggestion  of  bitterness  in  his  voice  which 
Hardy  was  not  slow  to  note. 

[179] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  he  allowed;  "but  you  know, 
and  I  know,  that  this  is  no  pleasure  trip  you  're  on — 
in  fact,  it 's  dangerous,  and  I  never  thought  that  Jim 
Swope  would  send  a  man  where  he  was  afraid  to  go 
himself.  Now  I  Ve  got  nothing  against  you,  Mr. 
Thomas,  and  of  course  you  're  working  for  him;  but  I 
ask  you,  as  a  man,  don't  you  think,  after  what  I  Ve 
done  for  him,  that  Jim  Swope  ought  to  come  along 
himself  if  he  wants  to  sheep  me  out  ? 

"I  Ve  fed  him,  and  I  Ve  fed  all  his  herders  and  all 
his  friends ;  I  Ve  grained  his  horses  when  they  were 
ga'nted  down  to  a  shadow  because  his  own  sheep  had 
cleaned  up  the  feed;  I  Ve  made  him  welcome  to  my 
house  and  done  everything  I  could  for  him ;  and  all  I 
asked  in  return  was  that  he  would  respect  this  upper 
range.  He  knows  very  well  that  if  his  sheep  go 
through  here  this  Fall  our  cattle,  will  die  in  the 
Winter,  and  he  knows  that  there  is  plenty  of  feed  out 
on  The  Rolls  where  our  cows  can't  go,  and  yet  he 
sends  you  in  where  he 's  scared  to  go  himself,  just 
to  hog  our  last  piece  of  good  feed  and  to  put  us 
out  of  business.  I  asked  him  down  in  Moroni  if  he 
thought  a  cowman  had  a  right  to  live,  and  he  dodged 
the  question  as  if  he  was  afraid  he  'd  say  some- 
thing." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  looked  out  over  the 
country  toward  Hidden  Water,  while  the  Mexicans 

[180] 


TEED     MY     SHEEP' 

watched  him  furtively  from  beneath  their  slouched 
hats. 

"Expecting  some  friends?"  inquired  Thomas,  with 
a  saturnine  grin. 

Hardy  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  came  out  here 
alone,  and  I  left  my  gun  in  camp.  I  have  n't  got  a 
friend  within  forty  miles,  if  that 's  what  you  mean.  I 
suppose  you  Ve  got  your  orders,  Mr.  Thomas,  but  I 
just  want  to  talk  this  matter  over  with  you." 

"All  right,"  said  the  sheepman,  suddenly  thawing 
out  at  the  good  news.  "I  don't  have  so  much  com- 
pany as  to  make  me  refuse,  even  if  it  is  a  warm 
subject.  But  mebby  you  'd  like  a  bite  to  eat  before 
we  git  down  to  business?"  He  waved  a  deprecating 
hand  at  the  greasy  canvas,  and  Hardy  swung  quickly 
down  from  his  saddle. 

"Thanks.  But  don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your 
dinner.  Here 's  where  I  break  even  with  Jim 
Swope  for  all  that  grub  I  cooked  last  Spring,"  he  re- 
marked, as  he  filled  his  plate.  "But  if  it  was  him  that 
asked  me,"  he  added,  "I  'd  starve  to  death  before  I  'd 
eat  it." 

He  sat  on  his  heels  by  the  canvas,  with  the  boss 
sheepman  on  the  other  side,  and  the  Mexicans  who 
had  been  so  cocky  took  their  plates  and  retired  like 
Apaches  to  the  edge  of  the  brush,  where  they  would 
not  obtrude  upon  their  betters. 

[181] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"They  say  it 's  bad  for  the  digestion,"  observed 
Hardy,  after  the  first  silence,  "to  talk  about  things 
that  make  you  mad;  so  if  you  don't  mind,  Mr. 
Thomas,  we  '11  forget  about  Jim  Swope.  What  kind 
of  a  country  is  it  up  there  in  Apache  County,  where 
you  keep  your  sheep  all  Summer?" 

"A  fine  country,"  rejoined  Thomas,  "and  I  wish 
to  God  I  was  back  to  it,"  he  added. 

"Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  this  country?  It 
looks  pretty  good  to  me." 

"Ye-es,"  admitted  the  sheepman  grudgingly,  "it 
looks  good  enough,  but — well,  I  lived  up  there  a  long 
time  and  I  got  to  like  it.  I  had  one  of  the  nicest 
little  ranches  in  the  White  Mountains ;  there  was  good 
huntin'  and  fishin'  and — well,  I  felt  like  a  wiiite  man 
up  there — never  had  no  trouble,  you  understand — and 
I  was  makin'  good  money,  too." 

His  voice,  which  before  had  been  harsh  and  strident, 
softened  down  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  natural  beauty  of 
the  mountains  which  had  been  his  home,  but  there  was 
a  tone  of  sadness  in  his  talk  which  told  Hardy  that 
ultimately  he  had  suffered  some  great  misfortune 
there.  His  occupation  alone  suggested  that — for 
there  are  few  white  men  working  as  sheep-herders  who 
lack  a  hard  luck  story,  if  any  one  will  listen  to  it.  But 
this  Shep  Thomas  was  still  young  and  unbroken,  with 
none  of  the  black  marks  of  dissipation  upon  his  face, 

[182] 


"FEED    MY    SHEEP' 

and  his  eyes  were  as  keen  and  steady  as  any  hunter's. 
He  was  indeed  the  very  type  of  fighter  that  Swope 
had  sought,  hardy  and  fearless,  and  at  the  same  time 
careful.  As  they  sat  together  Hardy  looked  him  over 
and  was  glad  that  he  had  come  out  unarmed,  yet 
though  his  host  seemed  a  man  of  just  and  reasonable 
mind  there  was  a  set,  dogged  look  in  his  eyes  which 
warned  the  cowman  not  to  interfere,  but  let  him  talk 
his  fill.  And  the  boss  herder,  poor  lonely  man,  was 
carried  away  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  temptation  of 
a  listener;  after  many  days  of  strife  and  turmoil, 
cutting  trails,  standing  off  cowmen,  cursing  Mexicans, 
at  last  to  meet  a  white  man  who  would  just  sit  silent 
and  let  him  talk!  His  stories  were  of  hunting  and 
fishing,  of  prospecting,  and  restless  adventures  among 
the  Indians,  and  every  time  the  conversation  worked 
around  towards  sheep  he  led  it  resolutely  away.  And 
for  his  part,  never  for  a  moment  did  Hardy  try  to 
crowd  him,  but  let  the  talk  lead  where  it  would,  until 
of  his  own  volition  the  sheepman  told  his  story. 

"I  suppose  you  wonder  what  I  'm  doing  down 
here,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  I  was  so  stuck  on  the  Concho 
country?  Well,  I  bet  you  would  n't  guess  in  a  thou- 
sand years — and  you  ought  to  be  a  pretty  good 
guesser,  too,"  he  added,  with  a  gruff  laugh.  "Now, 
what  do  you  think  it  was  that  put  me  on  the  bum?" 

"Poker  game?"  queried  Hardy  politely. 

[183] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Nope,"  replied  the  sheepman,  showing  his  teeth, 
"I  'm  winners  on  poker." 

"You  don't  look  like  a  drinking  man." 

"Naw — nor  it  was  n't  women,  either.  It 's  some- 
thing unusual,  I  tell  you.  I  stood  and  looked  at  it 
for  ten  years,  and  never  turned  a  hair.  But  here, 
I  Ve  been  holdin'  out  on  you  a  little — I  never  told  you 
what  it  was  I  raised  on  my  ranch.  Well,  it  was 
sheep." 

"Sheep?"  echoed  Hardy,  "did  you  keep  'em  there 
all  Winter?" 

"W'y  sure,  man.  There  's  lots  of  sheep  in  Apache 
County  that  was  never  ten  miles  from  home." 

"Then  why  does  Jim  Swope  bring  his  bands  south 
every  Fall?  I  hear  he  loses  five  per  cent  of  them,  at 
the  least,  coming  and  going." 

"Ah,  you  don't  understand  Jim  as  well  as  I  do.  I 
was  tryin'  to  make  a  livin' ;  he  's  tryin'  to  git  rich. 
He  's  doin'  it,  too." 

Once  more  the  note  of  bitterness  came  into  his  voice, 
and  Hardy  saw  that  the  time  had  come. 

"How  's  that?"  he  inquired  quietly,  and  the  sheep- 
man plunged  into  his  story. 

"Well,  it  was  this  way.  I  kept  a  few  thousand 
sheep  up  there  in  my  valley.  In  the  Summer  we  went 
up  the  mountain,  f ollowin'  the  grass,  and  in  the  Win- 
ter we  fed  down  below,  where  the  ground  was  bare. 

[184] 


"FEED     MY     SHEEP' 

It  never  got  very  cold,  and  my  sheep  was  used  to  it, 
anyhow.  The  Navajos  don't  move  their  sheep  south, 
do  they?  Well,  they  're  away  north  of  where  I  was. 
We  jest  give  'em  a  little  shelter,  and  looked  after  'em, 
and,  as  I  says,  I  was  doin'  fine — up  to  last  year." 

He  paused  again,  with  his  secret  on  his  lips,  and 
once  more  Hardy  supplied  the  helping  word. 

"And  what  happened  then?"  he  asked. 

"What  happened  then?"  cried  Thomas,  his  eyes 
burning.  "Well,  you  ought  to  know — I  was  sheeped 
out." 

"Sheeped  out?  Why,  how  could  that  happen? 
You  were  a  sheepman  yourself!" 

The  boss  herder  contemplated  him  with  an  amused 
and  cynical  smile.  "You  ask  Jim  Swope,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

For  a  minute  Hardy  sat  staring  at  him,  bewildered. 
"Well,"  he  said,  ffl  can't  figure  it  out — maybe  you 
would  n't  mind  telling  me  how  it  happened." 

"Why  hell,  man,"  burst  out  the  sheepman,  "it 's 
as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face — I  did  n't  belong  to 
the  Association.  All  these  big  sheepmen  that  drive 
north  and  south  belong  to  the  Sheepmen's  Protective 
Association,  and  they  stand  in  with  each  other,  but  we 
little  fellows  up  in  'Pache  County  was  nobody.  It 's 
about  ten  years  ago  now  that  the  Swope  outfit  first 
came  in  through  our  country;  and,  bein'  in  the  sheep 

[185] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

business  ourselves,  we  was  always  friendly,  and  never 
made  no  trouble,  and  naturally  supposed  that  they  'd 
respect  our  range.  And  so  they  did,  until  I  found 
one  of  Jim's  herders  in  on  my  ranch  last  Summer. 

"Well,  I  thought  there  was  some  misunderstandin', 
but  when  I  told  him  and  his  compadres  to  move  it  was 
a  bad  case  of  'No  savvy'  from  the  start;  and  while  I 
was  monkeyin'  around  with  them  a  couple  of  more 
bands  sneaked  in  behind,  and  first  thing  I  knew  my 
whole  lower  range  was  skinned  clean.  Well,  sir,  I 
worked  over  one  of  them  paisanos  until  he  was  a 
total  wreck,  and  I  took  a  shot  at  another  hombre, 
too — the  one  that  couldn't  savvy;  but  there  was 
no  use  cavin'  round  about  it — I  was  jest  naturally 
sheeped  out. 

"It  looked  like  I  was  busted,  but  I  would  n't  admit 
it,  and  while  I  was  studyin'  on  the  matter  along  comes 
Jim  himself  and  offers  me  five  thousand  dollars  for 
my  sheep.  They  was  worth  ten  if  they  was  worth  a 
cent,  all  fine  and  fat;  but  my  winter  feed  was  gone 
and  of  course  I  was  up  against  it.  I  see  somethin' 
would  have  to  be  done,  and  dam'  quick,  too;  so  I 
chased  down  to  St.  John  and  tried  to  git  a  higher  bid. 
But  these  sheepmen  stand  in  with  each  other  on  a 
proposition  like  that,  and  I  could  n't  git  nawthin'. 

"  'All  right,'  I  says  to  Jim,  'take  'em,  and  be 
dam'ed  to  you.' 

[186] 


"FEED     MY     SHEEP' 

"  'The  price  has  gone  down,'  says  Jim.  'I  '11  give 
you  four  thousand.' 

fffWhatr    I  says. 

"  'Three  thousand/  says  Jim. 

"  'You  '11  give  me  five  thousand,'  says  I,  crowdin* 
my  gun  against  his  short  ribs,  'or  I  '11  let  the  light  in 
on  you/  and  after  that  Jim  and  me  understood  each 
other  perfectly.  In  fact,  we  got  stuck  on  each  other. 
Yes,  sir,  after  I  got  over  bein'  excited  and  could  listen 
to  reason,  he  put  it  to  me  straight — and  he  was  right . 

"  'What 's  the  use  of  bein'  the  yaller  dog?'  he  says. 
'You  can't  buck  the  whole  Association.  But  we  Ve 
got  room  for  you/  he  says,  cso  git  on  and  ride/  And 
here  I  am,  by  Joe,  leadin'  the  procession." 

The  sheepman  paused  and  gazed  at  the  band  of 
sheep  as  they  stood  in  a  solid  mass,  their  heads  tucked 
under  each  other's  bellies  to  escape  the  sun. 

"Some  of  them  sheep  used  to  be  mine,"  he  observed, 
and  laughed  slyly.  "That 's  the  only  thing  between 
me  and  the  boss.  He  's  begged  and  implored,  and 
cursed  and  said  his  prayers,  tryin'  to  git  me  interested 
in  the  sheep  business  again;  but  like  the  pore,  dam' 
fool  I  am  I  keep  that  five  thousand  dollars  in  the 
bank."  His  shoulders  heaved  for  a  moment  with 
silent  laughter,  and  then  his  face  turned  grave. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hardy,"  he  said,  "business  is  business, 
and  I  Ve  got  to  be  movin'  along  pretty  soon.  I 

[187] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

believe  you  said  you  'd  like  to  talk  matters  over  for  a 
minute." 

"Yes,"  answered  Hardy  promptly,  "I  'd  like  to 
make  arrangements  to  have  you  turn  out  through  that 
pass  yonder  and  leave  us  a  little  feed  for  next 
Winter." 

The  sheepman  cocked  his  head  to  one  side  and  shut 
one  eye  knowingly. 

"Oh,  you  would,  would  you?  And  what  word  shall 
I  take  back  to  the  boss,  then?" 

"I  expect  I  '11  see  him  before  you  do,"  said  Hardy, 
"but  if  you  get  ahead  of  me  you  can  just  say  that  I 
asked  you  to  move,  and  so  you  followed  out  your 
orders." 

"Yes,"  responded  Thomas,  smiling  satirically, 
"that  'd  be  lovely.  But  how  long  since  I  Ve  been 
takin'  orders  off  of  you?" 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  trying  to  give  you  any  orders,"  pro- 
tested Hardy.  "Those  come  straight  from  Jim 
Swope." 

"How's  that?"  inquired  the  sheepman,  with  sud- 
den interest. 

"Why,  don't  you  remember  what  he  said  when  he 
introduced  me  to  you,  down  in  Moroni?  'This  is  Mr. 
Hardy,'  he  said,  ca  white  cowman.  If  you  have  to  go 
across  his  range,  go  quick,  and  tell  your  men  the 
same.'  You  may  have  forgotten,  but  it  made  a  great 

[188] 


FEED    MY     SHEEP 


9  9 


impression  on  me.  And  then,  to  show  there  was  no 
mistake  about  it,  he  told  me  if  I  found  any  of  his 
sheep  on  my  range  to  order  them  off,  and  you  would 
see  that  they  went.  Is  n't  that  straight?" 

He  leaned  over  and  looked  the  sheepman  in  the  eye 
But  Thomas  met  his  glance  with  a  sardonic  smile. 
"Sure,  it 's  right.  But  I  Ve  received  other  orders 
since  then.  You  know  Jim  claims  to  be  religious 
' — he  's  one  of  the  elders  in  the  church  down  there — 
and  he  likes  to  keep  his  word  good.  After  you  was 
gone  he  come  around  to  me  and  said:  'That 's  all 
right,  Shep,  about  what  I  said  to  that  cowman,  but 
there  's  one  thing  I  want  you  always  to  remember — 
feed  my  sheep!'  Well,  them  's  my  orders." 

"Well,"  commented  Hardy,  "that  may  be  good 
Scripture,  but  what  about  my  cows?  There  's  plenty 
of  feed  out  on  The  Rolls  for  Jim's  sheep,  but 
my  cows  have  got  to  drink.  We  cowmen  have 
been  sheeped  out  of  all  the  lower  country  down 
there,  and  here  we  are,  crowded  clear  up  against 
the  rocks.  You  Ve  stolen  a  march  on  us  and  of 
course  you  're  entitled  to  some  feed,  but  give  us  a 
chance.  You  Ve  been  sheeped  out  yourself,  and  you 
know  what  it  feels  like.  Now  all  I  ask  of  you  is  that 
you  turn  out  through  this  pass  and  go  down  onto  The 
Rolls.  If  you  '11  do  that  I  can  turn  all  the  rest  of 
the  sheep  and  keep  my  cows  from  starving,  but  if  you 

[189] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

go  through  me  they  '11  all  go  through  me,  and  I  'm 
done  for.  I  don't  make  any  threats  and  I  can't  offer 
any  inducements,  but  I  just  ask  you,  as  a  white 
man,  to  go  around." 

As  he  ended  his  appeal  he  stood  with  his  hands 
thrown  out,  and  the  sheepman  looked  at  him,  smiling 
curiously. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  "you're  a  new  kind  of 
cowman  on  me,  pardner,  but  I  '11  go  you,  if  Jim 
throws  a  fit." 

He  advanced,  and  held  out  his  hand,  and  Hardy 
took  it. 

"If  all  sheepmen  were  like  you,"  he  said,  "life  would 
be  worth  living  in  these  parts."  And  so,  in  a  friend- 
ship unparalleled  in  the  history  of  the  Four  Peaks 
country,  a  sheepman  and  a  cowman  parted  in  amity 
— and  the  sheep  went  around. 


[190] 


CHAPTER    XI 

JUMPED 

\\T  INTER,  the  wonted  season  of  torrential  rains, 
six  weeks'  grass,  and  budding  flowers,  when  the 
desert  is  green  and  the  sky  washed  clean  and  blue,  fol- 
lowed close  in  the  wake  of  the  sheep,  which  went  drift- 
ing past  Hidden  Water  like  an  army  without  banners. 
But  alas  for  Hidden  Water  and  the  army  of  sheep ! 
—in  this  barren  Winter  the  torrential  rains  did  not 
fall,  the  grass  did  not  sprout,  and  the  flowers  did  not 
bloom.  A  bleak  north  wind  came  down  from  the 
mountains,  cold  and  dry  and  crackling  with  electricity, 
and  when  it  had  blown  its  stint  it  died  down  in  a  freez- 
ing, dusty  silence. 

Then  the  mighty  south — the  rain — wind  that  blows 
up  out  of  Papagueria,  rose  up,  big  with  promise,  and 
whirled  its  dust  clouds  a  thousand  feet  high  against 
the  horizon.  But,  after  much  labor,  the  keen,  steely, 
north  wind  rushed  suddenly  down  upon  the  black 
clouds,  from  whose  edges  the  first  spatter  of  rain  had 
already  spilled,  and  swept  them  from  the  horizon, 
howling  mournfully  the  while  and  wrestling  with  the 
gaunt  trees  at  night.  In  shaded  places  the  icicles 

[191] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

from  slow-seeping  waters  clung  for  days  unmelted, 
and  the  migrant  ducks,  down  from  the  Arctic,  rose 
up  from  the  half -frozen  sloughs  and  winged  silently 
away  to  the  far  south.  Yet  through  it  all  the  Dos  S 
cattle  came  out  unscathed,  feeding  on  what  dry  grass 
and  browse  the  sheep  had  left  on  Bronco  Mesa ;  and  in 
the  Spring,  when  all  hope  seemed  past,  it  rained. 

Only  those  who  have  been  through  a  drougth  know 
what  music  there  is  hidden  in  rain.  It  puts  a  wild 
joy  into  the  heart  of  every  creature,  the  birds  sing, 
the  rabbits  leap  and  caper,  and  all  the  cattle  and  wild 
horses  take  to  roaming  and  wandering  out  of  pure 
excess  of  spirits.  It  was  early  in  March  when  the 
first  showers  came,  and  as  soon  as  the  new  feed  was 
up  Creede  began  his  preparations  for  the  spring 
rodeo.  The  Winter  had  been  a  hard  one,  and  >  not 
without  its  worries.  In  an  interview,  which  tended 
on  both  sides  to  become  heated  and  personal,  Jim 
Swope  had  denounced  Hardy  for  misrepresenting  his 
orders  to  his  mayordomo,  and  had  stated  in  no  uncer- 
tain terms  his  firm  intention  of  breaking  even  in  the 
Spring,  if  there  was  a  blade  of  grass  left  on  the  upper 
range. 

The  season  had  been  a  bad  one  for  his  sheep,  windy 
and  cold,  with  sand  storms  which  buried  the  desert  in 
a  pall  and  drove  many  flocks  to  the  hills ;  and  as  the 
feed  became  shorter  and  shorter  vagrant  bands  began 

[192] 


JUMPED 

to  drift  in  along  the  Salagua.  In  the  battle  for  the 
range  that  followed  herders  and  punchers  greeted  each 
other  with  angry  snarls  which  grew  more  wolfish  every 
day,  and  old  Pablo  Moreno,  shaking  his  white  head 
over  their  quarrels,  uttered  gloomy  prophecies  of 
greater  evils  to  come.  Sheep  would  die,  he  said,  cattle 
would  die — it  was  only  a  question  now  of  how  many, 
and  of  which.  It  was  a  coming  ano  seco;  nay,  the 
whole  country  was  drying  up.  In  Hermosillo,  so  they 
said,  the  women  stood  by  the  public  well  all  night, 
waiting  to  fill  their  ollas;  not  for  nine  years  had  the 
rains  fallen  there,  and  now  the  drought  was  spread- 
ing north.  Arizona,  California,  Nevada,  all  were 
doomed,  yet  paciencia,  perhaps — and  then  came  the 
rain.  Yes,  it  was  a  good  rain  but — and  then  it  rained 
again.  Que  bueno,  who  would  not  be  made  a  liar  for 
rain  ?  But  cuidado — behold,  the  ground  was  still  dry ; 
it  drank  up  the  water  as  it  fell  and  was  thirsty  again ; 
the  river  fell  lower  and  lower  and  the  water  was 
clear ;  a  bad  sign,  a  very  bad  sign ! 

But  if  the  young  should  wait  upon  the  advice  of 
the  old  there  would  be  no  more  miracles.  Creede  and 
Hardy  passed  up  the  weather,  strapped  on  their  six- 
shooters,  and  began  to  patrol  the  range,  "talking 
reason"  to  the  stray  Mexicans  who  thought  that, 
because  their  sheep  were  getting  poor,  they  ought  to 
move  them  to  better  feed. 

13  [193] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

The  time  for  friendship  and  diplomacy  was  past,  as 
Hardy  politely  informed  his  employer  by  letter — 
after  which  he  told  Rafael  to  keep  away  from  the 
post  office  and  not  bring  him  any  more  correo,  if  he 
valued  his  job.  But  though  he  had  made  his  note  to 
Judge  Ware  brief,  it  had  said  too  much.  He  had 
suggested  that  if  the  judge  did  not  like  his  change  of 
policy  he  had  better  come  down  and  see  the  actual 
conditions  for  himself — and  the  old  judge  came. 

It  was  midafternoon  of  that  fateful  day  when 
Creede  and  Hardy,  riding  in  from  up  the  river,  saw 
Rafael's  wagon  in  front  of  the  house.  This  was  not 
surprising  in  itself  as  he  had  been  down  to  Bender  for 
round-up  supplies,  but  as  the  two  partners  ap- 
proached the  house  Creede  suddenly  grabbed  Hardy's 
rein  and  drew  back  as  if  he  were  on  top  of  a  rattle- 
snake. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "what 's  that  ?    Listen !" 

He  jerked  a  thumb  toward  the  house,  and  in  the 
tense  silence  Hardy  could  clearly  discern  the  sound 
of  women's  vpices.  Now  you  could  ride  the  Four 
Peaks  country  far  and  wide  and  never  hear  the  musk 
of  such  voices,  never  see  calico  on  the  line,  or  a  lace 
curtain  across  the  window.  There  were  no  women  in 
that  godless  land,  not  since  the  Widow  Winship  took 
Sallie  and  Susie  and  left  precipitately  for  St.  Louis, 
none  save  the  Senora  Moreno  and  certain  strapping 


JUMPED 

Apache  squaws  who  wore  buckskin  tewas  and  carried 
butcher  knives  in  their  belts.  Even  the  heart  of 
Rufus  Hardy  went  pit-a-pat  and  stopped,  at  the 
sound  of  that  happy  chatter. 

"They  're  rustlin'  the  whole  dam'  house,"  exclaimed 
Creede,  all  nerves  and  excitement.  "Did  n't  you  hear 
that  pan  go  'bamp'?  Say,  I  believe  they  're  cleanin' 
house !  Ruf  e,"  he  whispered,  "I  bet  you  money  we  're 
jumped!" 

The  possibility  of  having  their  ranch  preempted 
during  their  absence  had  been  spoken  of  in  a  general 
way,  since  Jim  Swope  had  gone  on  the  warpath,  but 
in  his  secret  soul  Rufus  Hardy  had  a  presentiment 
which  made  claim- jumping  look  tame.  There  was  a 
chastened  gayety  in  the  voices,  a  silvery  ripple  in  the 
laughter,  which  told  him  what  Creede  with  all  his 
cunning  could  never  guess;  they  were  voices  from 
another  world,  a  world  where  Hardy  had  had  trouble 
and  sorrow  enough,  and  which  he  had  left  forever. 
There  was  soldier  blood  in  his  veins  and  in  two  event- 
ful years  he  had  never  weakened ;  but  the  suddenness 
of  this  assault  stampeded  him. 

"You  better  go  first,  Jeff,"  he  said,  turning  his  horse 
away,  "they  might — " 

But  Creede  was  quick  to  intercept  him. 

"None  o'  that,  now,  pardner,"  he  said,  catching  his 
rein.  "You  're  parlor-broke — go  on  ahead!" 

[195] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

There  was  a  wild,  uneasy  stare  in  his  eye,  which 
nevertheless  meant  business,  and  Hardy  accepted  the 
rebuke  meekly.  Perhaps  his  conscience  was  already 
beginning  to  get  action  for  the  subterfuge  and  deceit 
which  he  had  practised  during  their  year  together. 
He  sat  still  for  a  moment,  listening  to  the  voices  and 
smiling  strangely. 

"All  right,  brother,"  he  said,  in  his  old  quiet  way, 
and  then,  whirling  Chapuli  about,  he  galloped  up  to 
the  house,  sitting  him  as  straight  and  resolute  as  any 
soldier.  But  Creede  jogged  along  more  slowly,  tuck- 
ing in  his  shirt,  patting  down  his  hair,  and  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  brow. 

At  the  thud  of  hoofs  a  woman's  face  appeared  at 
the  doorway — a  face  sweet  and  innocent,  with  a  broad 
brow  from  which  the  fair  hair  was  brushed  evenly 
[back,  and  eyes  which  looked  wonderingly  out  at  the 
world  through  polished  glasses.  It  was  Lucy  Ware, 
and  when  Hardy  saw  her  he  leaped  lightly  from  his 
horse  and  advanced  with  hat  in  hand — smiling,  yet 
looking  beyond  her. 

"I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Lucy,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  her  hand,  "and  if  we  had  only  known  you  were 
coming — " 

"Why,  Rufus  Hardy!"  exclaimed  the  young  lady, 
"do  you  mean  to  say  you  never  received  any  of  my 

letters?" 

[196] 


JUMPED 

At  this  Creede  stared,  and  in  that  self-same  moment 
Hardy  realized  how  the  low-down  strategy  which  he 
had  perpetrated  upon  his  employer  had  fallen  upon  his 
own  head  a  thousandfold.  But  before  he  could 
stammer  his  apologies,  Kitty  Bonnair  stood  before 
him — the  same  Kitty,  and  smiling  as  he  had  often 
seen  her  in  his  dreams. 

She  was  attired  in  a  stunning  outing  suit  of  officer's 
cloth,  tailored  for  service,  yet  bringing  out  the  grace- 
ful lines  of  her  figure;  and  as  Hardy  mumbled  out 
his  greetings  the  eyes  of  Jefferson  Creede,  so  long; 
denied  of  womankind,  dwelt  eagerly  upon  her  beauty. 
Her  dainty  feet,  encased  in  tan  high  boots,  held  him 
in  rapt  astonishment;  her  hands  fascinated  him  with: 
their  movements  like  the  subtle  turns  of  a  mesmerist ; 
and  the  witchery  of  her  supple  body,  the  mischief  In 
the  dark  eyes,  and  the  teasing  sweetness  of  her  voice 
smote  him  to  the  heart  before  he  was  so  much  as 
noticed. 

No  less  absolute,  for  all  his  strivings,  was  the  con- 
quest of  Rufus  Hardy,  the  frozen  bulwarks  of  whose 
heart  burst  suddenly  and  went  out  like  spring  ice  in 
the  radiance  of  her  first  smile. 

"I  knew  you  'd  be  glad  to  see  me,  too,"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand  to  him;  and  forgetful  of  all  his 
bitterness  he  grasped  it  warmly.  Then,  tardily  con- 
scious of  his  duty,  he  turned  to  Jeff. 

[197] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Miss  Kitty,"  he  said,  "this  is  my  friend,  Jefferson 
Creede — Miss  Bonnair." 

"I  'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Creede,"  said  Kitty, 
Bestowing  her  hand  upon  the  embarrassed  cowboy. 
"Of  course  you  know  Miss  Ware!" 

"Howdy  do,  Miss,"  responded  Creede,  fumbling 
for  his  hat,  and  as  Miss  Lucy  took  his  hand  the  man 
who  had  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  hearts  of  so 
many  sheep-herders  became  dumb  and  tongue-tied 
with  bashfulness.  There  was  not  a  man  in  the  Four 
Peaks  country  that  could  best  him,  in  anger  or  in  jest, 
when  it  called  for  the  ready  word ;  but  Kitty  Bonnair 
had  so  stolen  his  wits  that  he  could  only  stand  and 
sweat  like  a  trick-broken  horse.  As  for  Hardy  he 
saw  rainbows  and  his  heart  had  gone  out  of  business, 
but  still  he  was  "parlor-broke.'5 

"I  am  afraid  you  didn't  find  the  house  very 
orderly,"  he  observed,  as  Creede  backed  off  and  the 
conversation  sagged;  and  the  two  girls  glanced  at 
each  other  guiltily.  "Of  course  you  're  just  as  wel- 
come," he  added  hastily,  "and  I  suppose  you  could  n't 
help  cleaning  house  a  bit ;  but  you  gave  us  both  a  bad 
scare,  all  the  same.  Did  n't  you  notice  how  pale  we 
looked?"  he  asked,  to  mask  his  embarrassment.  "But 
you  were  right,  Jeff,"  he  continued  enigmatically. 

"Does  he  always  defer  to  you  that  way,  Mr. 
Creede?"  inquired  Kitty  Bonnair,  with  an  engaging 

[198] 


JUMPED 

smile.     "We  used  to  find  him  rather  perverse."     She 
glanced  roguishly  at  Hardy  as  she  gave  this  veiled 
rebuke.     "But  what  was  it  that  you  were  right  about  ? 
—I  'm  just  dying  to  ask  you  questions!" 

She  confessed  this  with  a  naive  frankness  which 
quite  won  the  big  cowboy's  heart,  and,  his  nerve  com- 
ing back,  he  grinned  broadly  at  his  former  suspicions. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  might  as  well  come  through  with 
it — I  told  him  I  bet  we  'd  been  jumped." 

"Jumped?"  repeated  Miss  Kitty,  mystified.  "Oh, 
is  that  one  of  your  cowboy  words?  Tell  me  what  it 
means !" 

"W'y,  it  means,"  drawled  Creede,  "that  two  young 
fellers  like  me  and  Rufe  goes  out  to  ride  the  range 
and  when  we  come  back  some  other  outfit  has  moved 
into  our  happy  home  and  we  're  orphans.  We  Ve 
been  havin'  a  little  trouble  with  the  sheep  lately,  and 
when  I  heard  them  pots  and  kittles  rattlin'  around  in 
here  I  thought  for  sure  some  Mormon  sheepman  had 
got  the  jump  on  us  and  located  the  ranch." 

"And  what  would  you  have  done  if  he  had?"  con- 
tinued Kitty  eagerly.  "Would  you  have  shot  him 
with  that  big  pistol?"  She  pointed  to  the  heavy 
Colt's  which  Creede  had  slung  on  his  hip. 

But  this  was  getting  too  romantic  and  Western, 
even  for  Jeff.  "No,  ma'am,"  he  said  modestly.  "We 
just  carry  that  to  balance  us  in  the  saddle." 

[199] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Kitty,  disappointed,  "and  didn't 
you  ever  shoot  anybody?" 

Creede  blushed  for  her,  in  spite  of  himself. 
"Well,"  he  replied  evasively,  "I  don't  know  how  it 
would  be  up  where  you  come  from,  but  that 's  kind 
of  a  leadin'  question,  ain't  it?" 

"Oh,  you  have,  then!"  exclaimed  Kitty  Bonnair 
ecstatically.  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  a  really,  truly 
cowboy!"  She  paused,  and  gazed  up  at  him  soul- 
fully.  "Won't  you  let  me  have  it  for  a  minute?" 
she  pleaded,  and  with  a  sheepish  grin  Creede  handed 
over  his  gun. 

But  if  there  had  been  another  cowboy  within  a  mile 
he  would  have  hesitated,  infatuated  as  he  was. 
Every  land  has  its  symbolism  and  though  the 
language  of  flowers  has  not  struck  root  in  the  cow 
country — nor  yet  the  amorous  Mexican  system  of 
"playing  the  bear" — to  give  up  one's  pistol  to  a  lady 
is  the  sign  and  token  of  surrender.  However,  though 
it  brought  the  sweat  to  his  brow,  the  byplay  was 
pulled  off  unnoticed,  Hardy  and  Lucy  Ware  being 
likewise  deep  in  confidences. 

"How  strange  you  look,  Rufus!"  exclaimed  Lucy, 
as  Kitty  Bonnair  began  her  assault  upon  the  happi- 
ness of  Jefferson  Creede.  "What  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself  in  these  two  years?" 

"Why,  nothing,"  protested  Hardy,  a  little  wan 

[200] 


J  U  M  P  E  D 

from  his  encounter  with  Kitty.  "Perhaps  you  have 
forgotten  how  I  used  to  look — our  hair  gets  pretty 
long  up  here,"  he  added  apologetically,  "but— 

"No,"  said  Lucy  firmly.  "It  isn't  a  matter  of 
hair,  although  I  will  admit  I  hardly  knew  you.  It 's 
in  your  eyes;  and  you  have  some  stern,  hard  lines 
about  your  mouth,  too.  Father  says  you  spend  all 
your  time  trying  to  keep  the  sheep  out — and  he  's 
very  much  displeased  with  you  for  disobeying  his 
directions,  too.  He  gave  up  some  important  busi- 
ness to  come  down  here  and  see  you,  and  I  hope  he 
scolds  you  well.  Have  you  been  writing  any  lately?" 
she  asked  accusingly. 

"No!"  answered  Hardy  absently,  "we  don't  have  to 
fight  them—" 

"But,  Rufus,"  protested  Lucy  Ware,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "do  take  your  mind  from  those 
dreadful  sheep.  I  asked  you  if  you  have  been  doing 
any  writing  lately — you  promised  to  send  me  some 
poems,  don't  you  remember?  And  I  haven't  re- 
ceived a  thing!" 

"Oh!"  said  Hardy,  blushing  at  his  mistake. 
"Well,  I  acknowledge  that  I  haven't  done  right — 
and  you  have  been  very  kind,  too,  Miss  Lucy,"  he 
added  gently.  "But  somehow  I  never  finish  any- 
thing down  here — and  the  sheep  have  been  pretty 
bad  lately.  I  have  to  do  my  work  first,  you  know. 

[201] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

I  '11  tell  you,  though,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice 
confidentially,  "if  I  can  see  you  when  no  one  is  around 
I  '11  give  you  what  little  I  've  written — at  least,  some 
of  the  best.  A  poet  at  his  worst,  you  know,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "is  the  poorest  man  in  the  world. 
He  's  like  a  woman  who  tells  everything — no  one 
could  respect  him.  But  if  we  can  take  our  finer 
moods,  and  kind  of  sublimate  them,  you  know,  well 
— every  man  is  a  poet  some  time." 

He  hesitated,  ended  lamely,  and  fell  suddenly  into 
a  settled  silence.  The  hard  lines  about  his  lips  deep- 
ened; his  eyes,  cast  to  the  ground,  glowed  dully;  and 
in  every  feature  Lucy  read  the  despair  that  was 
gnawing  at  his  heart.  And  with  it  there  was  some- 
thing more  — a  tacit  rebuke  to  her  for  having  brought 
Kitty  there  to  meet  him. 

"We  have  missed  you  very  much,"  she  began  softly, 
as  if  reading  his  thoughts,  "and  your  letters  were  so 
interesting!  Ever  since  I  showed  Kitty  the  first  one 
she  has  been  crazy  to  come  down  here.  Yes,  she  has 
been  reading  'The  Virginian'  and  O.  Henry  and 
'Wolfville'  until  it  is  simply  awful  to  hear  her  talk. 
And  ride — she  has  been  taking  lessons  for  a  year! 
Her  saddle  is  out  there  now  in  the  wagon,  and  if 
she  could  have  caught  one  of  those  wild  horses  out 
in  that  inclosed  field  I  really  believe  she  would  have 
mounted  him  and  taken  to  the  hills  like  an  Indian. 

[202] 


JUMPED 

I  had  to  come  down  to  take  care  of  father,  you  know, 
and — are  n't  you  glad  to  see  us,  Rufus?" 

She  gazed  up  at  him  anxiously,  and  her  eyes  became 
misty  as  she  spoke;  but  Hardy  was  far  away  and  he 
did  not  see. 

"Yes,"  he  said  absently,  "but — I  shall  be  very 
busy.  Oh,  where  is  your  father?" 

A  light  went  suddenly  from  Lucy's  eyes  and  her 
lips  quivered,  but  her  voice  was  as  steady  as  ever. 

"He  has  gone  down  to  the  river,"  she  said  patiently. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  him?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  still  impersonally;  and  with  his 
head  down,  he  walked  out  to  where  Chapuli  was 
standing.  Then,  as  if  some  memory  of  her  voice  had 
come  to  him,  he  dropped  the  bridle  lash  and  stepped 
back  quickly  into  the  house. 

"You  mustn't  notice  my  rudeness,  Miss  Lucy," 
he  began  abjectly.  "Of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  you; 
but  I  am  a  little  confused,  and — well,  you  under- 
stand." He  smiled  wanly  as  he  spoke,  and  held  out 
his  hand.  "Is  it  all  right?"  he  asked.  "Good-bye, 
then."  And  as  he  stepped  quietly  out  the  light  came 
back  into  Lucy's  eyes. 

"I  am  going  to  hunt  up  the  judge,"  he  said,  as  he 
swung  up  on  his  horse;  and,  despite  the  protests  of 
Jeff  and  Kitty  Bonnair,  who  were  still  deep  in  an 
animated  conversation,  he  rode  off  down  the  river. 

[203] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

It  was  not  exactly  like  a  draught  of  Nepenthe  to 
go  out  and  face  the  righteous  indignation  of  Judge 
Ware,  but  Hardy's  brain  was  in  such  a  whirl  that 
he  welcomed  the  chance  to  escape.  Never  for  a 
moment  had  he  contemplated  the  idea  of  Kitty's  com- 
ing to  him,  or  of  his  seeing  her  again  until  his  heart 
was  whole.  He  had  felt  safe  and  secure  forever 
within  the  walled  valley  of  Hidden  Water — but  now 
from  a  cloudless  sky  the  lightning  had  fallen  and 
blinded  him.  Before  he  could  raise  a  hand  or  even 
turn  and  flee  she  had  come  upon  him  and  exacted 
his  forgiveness.  Nay,  more — she  had  won  back  his 
love  and  enslaved  him  as  before.  Could  it  mean — 
what  else  could  it  mean?  Nothing  but  that  she  loved 
him;  or  if  not  love,  then  she  cared  for  him  above  the 
others.  And  Kitty  was  proud,  too!  Those  who 
became  her  slaves  must  respect  her  whims ;  she  would 
acknowledge  no  fault  and  brook  no  opposition ;  what- 
ever she  did  was  right.  Yes,  it  had  always  been  the 
same  with  her:  the  Queen  could  do  no  wrong — yet 
now  she  had  put  aside  her  regal  prerogatives  and  come 
to  him ! 

He  hugged  the  thought  to  his  bosom  like  a  man 
infatuated,  and  then  a  chill  misgiving  came  upon  him. 
Perhaps  after  all  it  was  but  another  of  those  childish 
whims  which  made  her  seem  so  lovable — always 
eager,  always  active,  always  striving  for  the  for- 

[204] 


J  U  M  P  E  D 

bidden  and  unusual,  yet  so  dear  with  her  laughing 
eyes  and  dancing  feet  that  all  the  world  gave  way 
before  her.  He  bowed  his  head  in  thought,  follow- 
ing the  judge's  tracks  mechanically  as  he  cantered 
down  the  trail,  and  when  he  came  to  the  hill  above  the 
whirlpool  and  looked  down  at  the  empty  landscape 
he  was  still  wrestling  with  his  pride.  Never  in  the 
two  years  of  his  exile  had  he  so  much  as  mentioned 
her  name  to  any  one;  it  was  a  thing  too  sacred  for 
confidences,  this  love  which  had  changed  the  deep 
current  of  his  life,  a  secret  for  his  own  soul  and  God 
— and  yet,  Lucy  Ware  might  help  him! 

And  where  in  all  the  world  would  he  find  a  more 
faithful  friend  than  Lucy  Ware?  A  secret  shared 
with  her  would  be  as  safe  as  if  still  locked  in  his  own 
breast — and  Lucy  could  understand.  Perhaps  she 
understood  already;  perhaps — his  heart  stopped,  and 
pounded  against  his  side — perhaps  Kitty  had  told 
Lucy  her  story  already  and  asked  her  to  intercede! 
He  dwelt  upon  the  thought  again  as  he  gazed  dumbly 
about  for  his  employer;  and  then  suddenly  the  outer 
world — the  plain,  rough,  rocks-and-cactus  world 
that  he  had  lived  in  before  they  came — flashed  up 
before  him  in  all  its  uncompromising  clearness;  the 
judge  was  nowhere  in  sight ! 

A  sudden  memory  of  Creede's  saying  that  he  could 
lose  his  boss  any  time  within  half  a  mile  of  camp 

[205] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

startled  Hardy  out  of  his  dreams  and  he  rode  swiftly 
forward  upon  the  trail.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill 
the  tracks  of  Judge  Ware's  broad  shoes  with  their 
nice  new  hob-nails  stood  out  like  a  bas-relief, 
pointing  up  the  river.  Not  to  take  any  chances. 
Hardy  followed  them  slavishly  through  the  fine 
sand  until  they  turned  abruptly  up  onto  a  ridge 
which  broke  off  at  the  edge  of  the  river  bottom. 
Along  the  summit  of  this  they  showed  again, 
plainly,  heading  north;  then  as  the  ravine  swung  to 
the  west  they  scrambled  across  it  and  began  to  zigzag, 
working  off  to  the  east  where  Black  Butte  loomed  up 
above  the  maze  of  brushy  ridges  like  a  guiding  sen- 
tinel. At  first  Hardy  only  smiled  at  the  circuitous 
and  aimless  trail  which  he  was  following,  expecting 
to  encounter  the  judge  at  every  turn;  but  as  the 
tracks  led  steadily  on  he  suddenly  put  spurs  to  his 
horse  and  plunged  recklessly  up  and  down  the  sides 
of  the  brushy  hogbacks  in  a  desperate  pursuit,  for  the 
sun  was  sinking  low.  The  trail  grew  fresher  and 
fresher  now;  dark  spots  where  drops  of  sweat  had 
fallen  showed  in  the  dry  sand  of  the  washes;  and  at 
last,  half  an  hour  before  sundown,  Hardy  caught 
sight  of  his  wandering  employer,  zealously  ascending 
a  particularly  rocky  butte. 

"Hello  there,  Judge!"  he  called,  and  then,  as  Judge 

[206] 


JUMPED 

Ware  whirled  about,  he  inquired,  with  well-feigned 
surprise:  "Where  'd  you  drop  down  from?" 

This  was  to  let  the  old  gentleman  down  easy — lost 
people  having  a  way  of  waxing  indignant  at  their 
rescuers — and  the  judge  was  not  slow  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it. 

"Why,  howdy  do,  Rufus!"  he  exclaimed,  sinking 
down  upon  a  rock.  "I  was  just  taking  a  little  short 
cut  to  camp.  My,  my,  but  this  is  a  rough  country. 
Out  looking  for  cattle?" 

"Well — yes,"  responded  Hardy.  "I  was  taking 
a  little  ride.  But  say,  it 's  about  my  supper  time. 
You  better  give  up  that  short-cut  idea  and  come  along 
home  with  me." 

"We-ell,"  said  the  judge,  reluctantly  descending 
the  butte,  "I  guess  I  will.  How  far  is  it?" 

"About  two  miles,  by  trail." 

"Two  miles!"  exclaimed  Judge  Ware,  aghast. 
"Why,  it 's  just  over  that  little  hill,  there.  Why  don't 
you  take  a  short  cut?" 

"The  trail  is  the  shortest  cut  I  know,"  replied 
Hardy,  concealing  a  smile.  "That 's  the  way  the 
cattle  go,  and  they  seem  to  know  their  business. 
How  does  the  country  look  to  you?" 

But  the  old  judge  was  not  to  be  led  aside  by  persi- 
flage— he  was  interested  in  the  matter  of  trails. 

[207] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Cattle  trails!"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  do  all  your  travelling  on  these  crooked 
cow  paths?  Why,  it  is  a  matter  of  scientific  obser- 
vation that  even  on  the  open  prairie  a  cow  path  loses 
nearly  a  quarter  of  its  headway  by  constant  winding 
in  and  out,  merely  to  avoid  frail  bushes  and  infinites- 
imal stones.  Now  if  you  and  Jeff  would  spend  a  little 
of  your  leisure  in  cutting  trails,  as  they  do  in  forestry, 
you  would  more  than  save  yourselves  the  time  and 
labor  involved,  I  'm  sure." 

"Yes?"  said  Hardy  coldly.  There  was  a  subtle 
tone  of  fault-finding  in  his  employer's  voice  which 
already  augured  ill  for  their  debate  on  the  sheep  ques- 
tion, and  his  nerves  responded  instinctively  to  the 
jab.  Fate  had  not  been  so  kind  to  him  that  day,  that 
he  was  prepared  to  take  very  much  from  any  man, 
and  so  he  remained  quiet  and  let  the  judge  go  the 
whole  length. 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  would  stay  about  the  ranch  a 
little  closer  instead  of  going  off  on  these  armed  forays 
against  sheep — now  just  for  example,  how  much 
would  it  cost  to  clear  a  passable  trail  over  that  ridge 
to  the  ranch?" 

He  pointed  at  the  hill  which  in  his  misguided  enthu- 
siasm he  had  been  mounting,  and  Hardy's  eyes  glit- 
tered wickedly  as  he  launched  his  barbed  jest. 

[208] 


JUMPED 

"About  a  billion  dollars,  I  guess,"  he  answered, 
after  mature  consideration. 

"A  billion  dollars !"  repeated  the  judge.  "A  billion 
dollars!  Now  here,  Rufus,"  he  cried,  choking  with 
exasperation,  "I  am  in  earnest  about  this  matter!  I 
don't  altogether  approve  of  the  way  you  and  Jeff  have 
been  conducting  my  affairs  down  here,  anyway,  and 
I  intend  to  take  a  hand  myself,  if  you  don't  mind.  I 
may  not  know  as  much  as  you  about  the  minor  details 
of  the  cattle  business,  but  I  have  been  looking  into 
forestry  quite  extensively,  and  I  fail  to  see  anything 
unreasonable  in  my  suggestion  of  a  trail.  How  far 
is  it,  now,  over  that  hill  to  the  ranch?" 

"About  twenty-five  thousand  miles,"  replied  Hardy 
blandly. 

"Twenty-five  thousand !     Why—" 

"At  least,  so  I  am  informed,"  explained  Hardy. 
"Geographers  agree,  I  believe,  that  that  is  the  approx- 
imate distance  around  the  world.  The  ranch  is  over 
here,  you  know." 

He  pointed  with  one  small,  sinewy  hand  in  a  direc- 
tion diametrically  opposite  to  the  one  his  boss  had 
indicated,  and  struck  out  down  a  cow  trail.  It  was 
a  harsh  blow  to  the  old  judge,  and  rankled  in  his 
bosom  for  some  time;  but  after  making  sure  that  his 
superintendent  was  correct  he  followed  meekly  behind 

14  [209] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Mm  into  camp.  On  the  way,  as  an  afterthought, 
he  decided  not  to  put  down  his  foot  in  the  matter  of 
the  sheep  until  he  was  quite  sure  of  the  material  facts. 

They  found  Creede  in  the  last  throes  of  agony  as 
he  blundered  through  the  motions  of  cooking  supper. 
Half  an  hour  of  house-cleaning  had  done  more  to 
disarrange  his  kitchen  than  the  services  of  two  charm- 
ing assistants  could  possibly  repair.  His  Dutch 
oven  was  dropped  into  the  wood  box;  his  bread  pan 
had  been  used  to  soak  dirty  dishes  in;  the  water  bucket 
was  empty,  and  they  had  thrown  his  grease  swab  into 
the  fire.  As  for  the  dish-rag,  after  long  and  faithful 
service  it  had  been  ruthlessly  destroyed,  and  he  had 
to  make  another  one  out  of  a  flour  sack.  Add  to  this 
a  hunger  which  had  endured  since  early  morning 
and  a  series  of  rapid-fire  questions,  and  you  have  the 
true  recipe  for  bad  bread,  at  least. 

Kitty  Bonnair  had  taken  a  course  in  sanitation  and 
domestic  science  in  her  college  days,  since  which  time 
the  world  had  been  full  of  microbes  and  every  unpleas- 
ant bacillus,  of  which  she  discoursed  at  some  length. 
But  Jefferson  Creede  held  steadily  to  his  fixed  ideas, 
and  in  the  end  he  turned  out  some  baking-powder 
biscuits  that  would  have  won  honors  in  a  cooking 
school.  There  was  nothing  else  to  cook,  his  kettle 
of  beans  having  been  unceremoniously  dumped 

[210] 


JUMPED 

because  the  pot  was  black;  but  Kitty  had  the  table 
spotlessly  clean,  there  was  an  assortment  of  potted 
meats  and  picnic  knicknacks  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
Lucy  had  faithfully  scoured  the  dishes ;  so  supper  was 
served  with  frills. 

If  the  ladies  had  taken  hold  a  little  strong  in  the 
first  spasms  of  house-cleaning,  Jeff  and  Rufus  were 
far  too  polite  to  mention  it;  and  while  the  dishes  were 
being  washed  they  quietly  gathered  up  their  belong- 
ings, and  moved  them  into  the  storeroom.  Their 
beds  being  already  spread  beneath  the  ramada,  it  was 
not  difficult  to  persuade  the  girls  to  accept  Hardy's 
room,  which  for  a  man's,  was  clean,  and  the  judge 
fell  heir  to  Jeff 's  well-littered  den.  All  being  quickly 
arranged  and  the  beds  made,  Creede  threw  an  armful 
of  ironwood  upon  the  fire  and  they  sat  down  to  watch 
it  burn. 

Three  hours  before,  Hidden  Water  had  Been  the* 
hangout  of  two  sheep-harrying  barbarians,  bushy- 
headed  and  short  of  speech;  now  it  was  as  bright  and 
cheerful  as  any  home  and  the  barbarians  were  changed 
to  lovers.  Yet,  as  they  basked  in  the  warmth  of  the 
fireside  there  was  one  absent  from  his  accustomed 
place — a  creature  so  fierce  and  shy  that  his  wild  spirit 
could  never  become  reconciled  to  the  change.  At  the 
first  sound  of  women's  voices  little  Tommy  had  dashed 

[211] 


HIDDEN    W  ATE  11 

through  his  cat-hole  and  fled  to  the  bowlder  pile  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff,  from  whose  dank  recesses  he 
peered  forth  with  blank  and  staring  eyes. 

But  now,  as  the  strange  voices  grew  quiet  and  night 
settled  down  over  the  valley,  he  crept  forth  and 
skulked  back  to  the  house,  sniffing  about  the  barred 
windows,  peeking  in  through  his  hole  in  the  door; 
and  at  last,  drawing  well  away  into  the  darkness,  he 
raised  his  voice  in  an  appealing  cry  for  Jeff. 

As  the  first  awful,  raucous  outburst  broke  the  outer 
silence  Kitty  Bonnair  jumped,  and  Lucy  and  her 
father  turned  pale. 

"What 's  that?"  cried  Kitty,  in  a  hushed  voice,  "a 
mountain  lion?" 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Creede  enigmatically.  "He 
will  be  though,  if  he  grows.  Aw,  say,  that 's  just 
my  cat.  Here,  pussy,  pussy,  pussy!  D'ye  hear 
that,  now?  Sure,  he  knows  me !  Wait  a  minute  and 
I  '11  try  an'  ketch  'im." 

He  returned  a  few  minutes  later,  with  Tommy 
held  firmly  against  his  breast,  blacker,  wilder,  and 
scrawnier  than  ever,  but  purring  and  working  his 
claws. 

"How  's  this  for  a  mountain  lion?"  said  Creede, 
stopping  just  inside  the  door  and  soothing  down  his 
pet.  "D'  ye  see  that  hook?"  he  inquired,  holding  up 
the  end  of  Tommy's  crooked  tail  and  laughing  at 

[212] 


JUMPED 

Kitty's  dismay.  "He  uses  that  to  climb  cliffs  with- 
That 's  right — he  's  a  new  kind  of  cat.  Sure,  they 
used  to  be  lots  of  'em  around  here,  but  the  coyotes 
got  all  the  rest.  Tom  is  the  only  one  left.  Want  to 
pet  him?  Well — whoa,  pussy, — come  up  careful* 
then;  he  's  never — ouch!" 

At  the  first  whisk  of  skirts,  Tommy's  yellow  eyes 
turned  green  and  he  sank  every  available  hook  and 
claw  into  his  master's  arm;  but  when  Kitty  reached 
out  a  hand  he  exploded  in  a  storm  of  spits  and  hisses 
and  dashed  out  through  the  door. 

"Well,  look  at  that,  now,"  said  Creede,  grinning 
and  rubbing  his  arm.  "D'  ye  know  what 's  the 
matter  with  him?  You're  the  first  woman  he  ever 
saw  in  his  life.  W'y,  sure!  They  ain't  no  women 
around  here.  I  got  him  off  a  cowman  over  on  the 
Verde.  He  had  a  whole  litter  of  'em — used  to  pinch 
Tom's  tail  to  make  him  fight — so  when  I  come  away 
I  jest  quietly  slipped  Mr.  Tommy  into  my  shaps." 

"Oh,  the  poor  little  thing,"  said  Kitty;  and  then  she 
added,  puckering  up  her  lips,  "but  I  don't  like  cats." 

"Oh,  I  do!"  exclaimed  Lucy  Ware  quickly,  as 
Creede's  face  changed,  and  for  a  moment  the  big 
cowboy  stood  looking  at  them  gravely. 

"That 's  good,"  he  said,  smiling  approvingly  at 
Lucy;  and  then,  turning  to  Kitty  Bonnair,  he  said: 
"You  want  to  learn,  then." 

[213] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

But  Kitty  was  not  amenable  to  the  suggestion. 

"No!"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot.  "I  don't! 
They  're  such  stealthy,  treacherous  creatures — and 
they  never  have  any  affection  for  people." 

"Ump-um!"  denied  Creede,  shaking  his  head 
slowly.  "You  don't  know  cats — jest  think  you  do, 
maybe.  W'y,  Tommy  was  the  only  friend  I  had  here 
for  two  years.  D'  ye  think  he  could  fool  me  all  that 
time?  Rufe  here  will  tell  you  how  he  follows  after 
me  for  miles — and  cryin',  too — when  the  coyotes 
might  git  'im  any  time.  And  he  sleeps  with  me  everjr 
night,"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice. 

"Well,  you  can  have  him,"  said  Kitty  lightly.  "Do 
they  have  any  real  mountain  lions  here  ?" 

"Huh?"  inquired  Creede,  still  big-eyed  with  his 
emotions.  "Oh,  yes;  Bill  Johnson  over  in  Hell's 
Hip  Pocket  makes  a  business  of  huntin'  'em. 
Twenty  dollars  bounty,  you  know." 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  Kitty.  "Will  he  take  me  with 
him?  Tell  me  all  about  it !" 

Jefferson  Creede  moved  over  toward  the  door  with 
a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

"That 's  all,"  he  said  indifferently.  "He  runs  'em 
with  hounds.  Well,  I  '11  have  to  bid  you  good-night." 

He  ducked  his  head,  and  stepped  majestically  out 
the  door;  and  Hardy,  who  was  listening,  could  hear 
him  softly  calling  to  his  cat. 

[214] 


JUMPED 

"Oh,  Rufus!"  cried  Kitty  appealingly,  as  he  rose 
to  follow,  ffdo  stop  and  tell  me  about  Bill  Johnson, 
and,  yes  —Hell's  Hip  Pocket!" 

"Why,  Kitty!"  exclaimed  Lucy  Ware  innocently, 
and  while  they  were  discussing  the  morals  of  geo- 
graphical swearing  Hardy  made  his  bow,  and  passed 
out  into  the  night. 

The  bitter-sweet  of  love  was  upon  him  again,  mat- 
ing the  stars  more  beautiful,  the  night  more  myste- 
rious and  dreamy ;  but  as  he  crept  into  his  blankets  he 
sighed.  In  the  adjoining  cot  he  could  hear  Jeff 
stripping  slivers  from  a  length  of  jerked  beef,  and 
Tommy  mewing  for  his  share. 

"Want  some  jerky,  Rufe?"  asked  Creede,  and 
then,  commenting  upon  their  late  supper,  he  re- 
marked : 

"A  picnic  dinner  is  all  right  for  canary  birds,  but 
it  takes  good  hard  grub  to  feed  a  man.  I  'm  goin'  to 
start  the  roder  camp  in  the  mornin'  and  cook  me  up 
some  beans."  He  lay  for  a  while  in  silence,  industri- 
ously feeding  himself  on  the  dry  meat,  and  gazing  at 
the  sky. 

"Say,  Rufe,"  he  said,  at  last,  "ain't  you  been 
holdin'  out  on  me  a  little?" 

"Um-huh,"  assented  Hardy. 

"Been  gettin'  letters  from  Miss  Lucy  all  the  time, 
eh?" 

[215] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Sure." 

"Well,"  remarked  Creede,  "you  're  a  hell  of 
a  feller!  But  I  reckon  I  learned  something"  he 
added  philosophically,  "and  when  I  want  somebody 
to  tell  my  troubles  to,  I  '11  know  where  to  go.  Say, 
she  's  all  right,  ain't  she?" 

"Yeah." 

"Who  're  you  talkin'  about?" 

"Who 're  you?" 

"Oh,  you  know,  all  right,  all  right — but,  say!" 

"Well?" 

"It 's  a  pity  she  don't  like  cats." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   GARDEN   IN   THE   DESERT 

sun  was  well  up  over  the  canon  rim  when  the 
tired  visitors  awoke  from  their  dreams.  Kitty 
Bonnair  was  the  first  to  open  her  eyes  and  peep  forth 
upon  the  fairy  world  which  promised  so  much  of 
mystery  and  delight.  The  iron  bars  of  their  window, 
deep  set  in  the  adobe  walls,  suggested  the  dungeon 
of  some  strong  prison  where  Spanish  maidens  lan- 
guished for  sight  of  their  lovers;  a  rifle  in  the  corner, 
overlooked  in  the  hurried  moving,  spoke  eloquently 
of  the  armed  brutality  of  the  times;  the  hewn  logs 
which  supported  the  lintels  completed  the  picture  of 
primitive  life ;  and  a  soft  breeze,  breathing  in  through 
the  unglazed  sills,  whispered  of  dark  canons  and  the 
wild,  free  out-of-doors. 

As  she  lay  there  drinking  it  all  in  a  murmur  of 
voices  came  to  her  ears;  and,  peering  out,  she  saw 
Creede  and  Rufus  Hardy  squatting  by  a  fire  out  by 
the  giant  mesquite  tree  which  stood  near  the  bank  of 
the  creek.  Creede  was  stirring  the  contents  of  a  fry- 
ing pan  with  a  huge  iron  spoon,  and  Rufus  was  cook- 
ing strips  of  meat  on  a  stick  which  he  turned  above  a 

[217] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

bed  of  coals.  There  was  no  sign  of  hurry  or  anxiety 
about  their  preparations;  they  seemed  to  be  convers- 
ing amiably  of  other  things.  Presently  Hardy 
picked  up  a  hooked  stick,  lifted  the  cover  from  the 
Dutch  oven,  and  dumped  a  pile  of  white  biscuits  upon 
a  greasy  cloth.  Then,  still  deep  in  their  talk,  they 
filled  their  plates  from  the  fry-pan,  helped  themselves 
to  meat,  wrapped  the  rest  of  the  bread  in  the  cloth, 
and  sat  comfortably  back  on  their  heels,  eating  with 
their  fingers  and  knives. 

It  was  all  very  simple  and  natural,  but  somehow 
she  had  never  thought  of  men  in  that  light  before. 
They  were  so  free,  so  untrammelled  and  self-sufficient ; 
yes,  and  so  barbarous,  too.  Rufus  Hardy,  the  poet, 
she  had  known — quiet,  soft-spoken,  gentle,  with 
dreamy  eyes  and  a  doglike  eagerness  to  please — but, 
lo!  here  was  another  Rufus,  still  gentle,  but  with  a 
stern  look  in  his  eyes  which,  left  her  almost  afraid — and 
those  two  lost  years  lay  between.  How  he  must  have 
changed  in  all  that  time!  The  early  morning  was 
Kitty's  time  for  meditation  and  good  resolutions,  and 
she  resolved  then  and  there  to  be  nice  to  Rufus,  for  he 
was  a  man  and  could  not  understand. 

As  the  sound  of  voices  came  from  the  house  Jeffer- 
son Creede  rose  up  from  his  place  and  stalked  across 
the  open,  rolling  and  swaying  in  his  high-heeled 
boots  like  a  huge,  woolly  bear. 

[218] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Well,  Judge,"  he  said,  after  throwing  a  mountain 
of  wood  on  the  fire  as  a  preliminary  to  cooking  break- 
fast for  his  guests,  "I  suppose  now  you  're  here  you  'd 
like  to  ride  around  a  little  and  take  stock  of  what 
you  Ve  got.  The  boys  will  begin  comin'  in  for  the 
roder  to-day,  and  after  to-morrow  I  '11  be  pretty 
busy;  but  if  you  say  so  I  '11  jest  ketch  up  a  gentle 
horse,  and  show  you  the  upper  range  before  the  work 
begins." 

"Oh,  won't  you  take  me,  too?"  cried  Kitty,  skip- 
ping in  eagerly.  "I  Ve  got  the  nicest  saddle — and  I 
bet  I  can  ride  any  horse  you  Ve  got." 

She  assumed  a  cowboy-like  strut  as  she  made  this 
assertion,  shaking  her  head  in  a  bronco  gesture  which 
dashed  the  dark  hair  from  her  eyes  and  made  her  look 
like  an  unbroken  thoroughbred.  Never  in  all  his  life, 
even  in  the  magazine  pictures  of  stage  beauties  which 
form  a  conspicuous  mural  decoration  in  those  parts, 
had  Creede  seen  a  woman  half  so  charming,  but  even 
in  his  love  blindness  he  was  modest. 

"We  '11  have  to  leave  that  to  the  judge,"  he  said 
deferentially,  "but  they 's  horses  for  everybody." 
He  glanced  inquiringly  at  Lucy,  who  was  busily  un- 
packing her  sketching  kit;  but  she  only  smiled,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"The  home  is  going  to  be  my  sphere  for  some 
time,"  she  remarked,  glancing  about  at  the  half- 

[219] 


HIDDEN     WATER       4 

cleaned  room,  "and  then,"  she  added,  with  decision, 
"I  *m  going  to  make  some  of  the  loveliest  water  colors 
in  the  world.  I  think  that  big  giant  cactus  standing 
on  that  red-and-gray  cliff  over  there  is  simply  won- 


XfUm,  pretty  good,"  observed  Creede  judicially. 
""But  you  jest  ought  to  see  'em  in  the  gorge  where 
Hidden  Water  comes  out!  Are  ye  goin'  along, 
Rufe?"  he  inquired,  bending  his  eyes  upon  Hardy 
with  a  knowing  twinkle.  "No?  Well,  you  can  show 
her  where  it  is  !  Did  n't  you  never  hear  why  they  call 
this  Hidden  Water?"  he  asked,  gazing  benignly  upon 
the  young  ladies.  "Well,  listen. 

"They  's  a  big  spring  of  water  right  up  here,  not 
Iialf  a  mile.  It  's  an  old  landmark  —  the  Mexicans 
call  it  Agua  Escondida  —  but  I  bet  neither  one  of  you 
can  find  it  and  I  '11  take  you  right  by  the  gulch  where 
it  comes  out.  They  can't  nobody  find  it,  unless 
they're  wise  enough  to  follow  cow  tracks  —  and  of 
course,  we  don't  expect  that  of  strangers.  But  if  you 
ever  git  lost  and  you  're  within  ten  miles  of  home  jest 
take  the  first  cow  trail  you  see  and  follow  it  downhill 
and  you  '11  go  into  one  end  or  the  other  of  Hidden 
Water  canon.  Sure,  it  's  what  you  might  call  the 
Hello-  Central  of  the  whole  Four  Peaks  country,  with 
cow  paths  instead  of  wires.  The  only  thing  lackin' 
is  the  girls,  to  talk  back,  and  call  you  down  for  your 

[220] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

ungentlemanly  language,  and — well,  this  country  is 
comin'  up  every  day !" 

He  grinned  broadly,  wiping  his  floury  hands  on 
his  overalls  in  defiance  of  Miss  Kitty's  most  rudi- 
mentary principles;  and  yet  even  she,  for  all  her 
hygiene,  was  compelled  to  laugh.  There  was  some- 
thing about  Creede  that  invited  confidence  and  femi- 
nine badgering,  he  was  so  like  a  big,  good-natured 
Hoy.  The  entire  meal  was  enlivened  by  her  efforts, 
in  the  person  of  a  hello  girl,  to  expurgate  his  lan- 
guage, and  she  ended  by  trying  to  get  him  to  swear — 
politely. 

But  in  this  the  noble  cowboy  was  inexorable.  "No, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  with  an  excess  of  moral  conviction. 
"I  never  swear  except  for  cause — and  then  I  always 
regret  it.  But  if  you  want  to  git  some  of  the  real 
thing  to  put  in  your  phonygraft  jest  come  down  to 
the  pasture  to-morrow  when  the  boys  are  breakin' 
horses.  Your  hair  's  kind  of  wavy,  I  notice,  but  it 
will  put  crimps  in  it  to  hear  Bill  Lightfoot  or  some  of 
them  Sunflower  stiffs  when  they  git  bucked  onto 
a  rock  pile.  And  say,  if  you  call  yourself  a  rider  I 
can  give  you  a  snake  for  to-day." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Creede,"  answered  Miss  Kitty, 
bowing  low  as  she  left  the  table.  "It 's  tail,  if  it 
chanced  to  be  a  rattler,  would  be  most  acceptable,  I 
am  sure,  and  I  might  make  a  belt  out  of  its  skin.  But 

[221] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

for  riding  purposes  I  prefer  a  real,  gentle  little  horse. 
Now  hurry  up,  and  I  '11  be  dressed  in  half  an  hour." 

Ten  minutes  later  Creede  rode  up  to  the  house, 
leading  a  sober  gray  for  the  judge,  but  for  Kitty 
Bonnair  he  had  the  prettiest  little  calico-horse  in  the 
bunch,  a  pony  painted  up  with  red  and  yellow  and 
white  until  he  looked  like  a  three-color  chromo. 
Even  his  eye  was  variegated,  being  of  a  mild,  pet- 
rabbit  blue,  with  a  white  circle  around  the  orbit;  and 
his  name,  of  course,  was  Pinto.  To  be  sure,  his  face 
was  a  little  dished  in  and  he  showed  other  signs  of  his 
scrub  Indian  blood,  but  after  Creede  had  cinched  on 
the  new  stamped-leather  saddle  and  adjusted  the 
ornate  hackamore  and  martingale,  Pinto  was  the 
sportiest-looking  horse  outside  of  a  Wild  West  show. 

There  was  a  long  wait  then,  while  Diana  completed 
her  preparations  for  the  hunt;  but  when  Kitty  Bon- 
nair, fully  apparelled,  finally  stepped  through  the 
door  Creede  reeled  in  the  saddle,  and  even  Rufus 
Hardy  gasped.  There  was  nothing  immodest  about 
her  garb — in  fact,  it  was  very  correct  and  proper — 
but  not  since  the  Winship  girls  rode  forth  in  overalls 
had  Hidden  Water  seen  its  like.  Looking  very  trim 
and  boyish  in  her  khaki  riding  breeches,  Kitty  strode 
forth  unabashed,  rejoicing  in  her  freedom.  A  little 
scream  of  delight  escaped  her  as  she  caught  sight  of 
the  calico-pony;  she  patted  his  nose  a  moment,  in- 

[222] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

quired  his  name,  and  then,  scorning  all  assistance, 
swung  lightly  up  into  the  saddle.  No  prettier 
picture  had  ever  been  offered  to  the  eye;  so  young, 
so  supple  and  strong,  with  such  a  wealth  of  dark, 
wavy  hair,  and,  withal,  so  modest  and  honestly  happy. 
But,  somehow,  Jefferson  Creede  took  the  lead  and 
rode  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  lest  they  should  be 
dazzled  by  the  vision.  Besides,  Jeff  had  been  raised 
old-fashioned,  and  Golden  Gate  Park  is  a  long,  long 
ways,  chronologically,  from  Hidden  Water. 

As  the  procession  passed  away  up  the  canon,  with 
Creede  in  sober  converse  with  the  judge  and  Kitty 
scampering  about  like  an  Indian  on  her  pinto  horse, 
Hardy  and  Lucy  Ware  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
laughed. 

"Did  you  ever  see  any  one  like  her?"  exclaimed 
Lucy,  and  Hardy  admitted  with  a  sigh  that  he  never 
had. 

"And  I  am  afraid,"  observed  Miss  Lucy  frankly, 
"you  were  not  altogether  pleased  to  see  her — at  first. 
But  really,  Rufus,  what  can  any  one  hope  to  do  with 
Kitty?  When  she  has  set  her  heart  on  anything  she 
will  have  it,  and  from  the  very  moment  she  read  your 
first  letter  she  was  determined  to  come  down  here. 
Of  course  father  thinks  he  came  down  to  look  into 
this  matter  of  the  sheep,  and  I  think  that  I  came 
down  to  look  after  him,  but  in  reality  I  have  no  doubt 

[223] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

we  are  both  here  because  Kitty  Bonnair  so  wills 
it." 

"Very  likely,"  replied  Hardy,  with  a  doubtful 
smile.  "But  since  you  are  in  her  counsels  perhaps 
you  can  tell  what  her  intentions  are  toward  me.  I 
used  to  be  one  of  her  gentlemen-in-waiting,  you 
know,  and  this  visit  looks  rather  ominous  for  me." 

"Well,  just  exactly  what  are  you  talking  about, 
Rufus?" 

"I  guess  you  know,  all  right,"  replied  Hardy. 
"Have  I  got  to  ride  a  bucking  bronco,  or  kill  a  sheep- 
herder  or  two — or  is  it  just  another  case  of  cmove 
on'?" 

He  paused  and  smiled  bitterly  to  himself,  but 
Lucy  was  not  in  a  mood  to  humor  him  in  his  mis- 
anthropy. 

"I  must  confess,"  she  said,  "that  you  may  be  called 
upon  to  do  a  few  chivalrous  feats  of  horsemanship, 
but  as  for  the  sheep-herder  part  of  it,  I  hope  you  will 
try  to  please  me  by  leaving  them  alone.  It  worries 
me,  Rufus,"  she  continued  soberly,  "to  see  you  becom- 
ing so  strong-willed  and  silent.  There  was  a  whole 
year,  when  none  of  us  heard  a  word  from  you — and 
then  it  was  quite  by  accident.  And  father  thinks  you 
stopped  writing  to  him  with  the  deliberate  intention 
of  driving  the  sheep  away  by  violence." 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  he  understands  so  well,"  replied 

[224] 


tTHE     GARDEN     IN     THE    DESERT 

Hardy  naively.  "Of  course  I  would  n't  embarrass 
him  by  asking  for  orders,  but— 

"Oh,  Rufus!"  exclaimed  Miss  Lucy  impatiently, 
"do  try  to  be  natural  again  and  take  your  mind  off 
those  sheep.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  of 
doing?"  she  demanded  seriously.  "I  am  thinking  of 
asking  father  to  give  me  this  ranch — he  said  he  would 
if  I  wanted  it — and  then  I  '11  discharge  you!  You 
shall  not  be  such  a  brutal,  ugly  man !  But  come,  now, 
I  want  you  to  help  clear  the  table,  and  then  we  will 
go  up  to  Hidden  Water  and  read  your  poems.  But 
tell  me,  have  you  had  any  trouble  with  the  sheep- 
men?" 

"Why,  no!"  answered  Hardy  innocently.  "What 
made  you  ask?" 

"Well,  you  wrote  father  you  expected  trouble — 
and — and  you  had  that  big,  long  pistol  when  you 
came  in  yesterday.  Now  you  can't  deny  that!" 

"I  'm  afraid  you  Ve  had  some  Western  ideas  im- 
planted in  your  bosom  by  Kitty,  Miss  Lucy,"  pro- 
tested Hardy.  "We  never  shoot  each  other  down 
here.  I  carry  that  pistol  for  the  moral  effect — and 
it 's  necessary,  too,  to  protect  these  sheepmen  against 
their  own  baser  natures.  You  see  they  're  all  armed, 
and  if  I  should  ride  into  their  camp  without  a  gun 
and  ask  them  to  move  they  might  be  tempted  to  do 
something  overt.  But  as  it  is  now,  when  Jeff  and  I 

15  [225] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

begin  to  talk  reason  with  them  they  understand.  No, 
we're  all  right;  it's  the  sheep-herders  that  have  all 
the  trouble." 

"Rufus  Hardy,"  cried  Miss  Lucy  indignantly,  "if 
you  mention  those  sheep  again  until  you  are  asked 
about  them,  I  '11  have  you  attended  to.  Do  you 
realize  how  far  I  have  come  to  see  your  poems  and 
hear  you  talk  the  way  you  used  to  talk?  And  then  to 
hear  you  go  on  in  this  way!  I  thought  at  first  that 
Mr.  Creede  was  a  nice  man,  but  I  am  beginning  to 
change  my  opinion  of  him.  But  you  have  just  got 
to  be  nice  to  me  and  Kitty  while  we  are  here.  I  had 
so  many  things  to  tell  you  about  your  father,  and 
Tupper  Browne,  and  The  Circle,  but  you  just  sit 
around  so  kind  of  close-mouthed  and  silent  and  never 
ask  a  question!  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  how 
your  father  is?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  yes,"  responded  Hardy  meekly.  "Have 
you  seen  him  lately?" 

"I  saw  him  just  before  we  came  away.  He  is 
dreadfully  lonely,  I  know,  but  he  would  n't  send  any 
message.  He  never  says  anything  when  I  tell  him 
what  you  are  doing,  just  sits  and  twists  his  mustache 
and  listens ;  but  I  could  tell  by  the  way  he  said  good- 
bye that  he  was  glad  I  was  coming.  I  am  sorry  you 
can't  agree — isn't  there  something  you  could  do  to 
make  him  happier?" 

[226] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

Hardy  looked  up  from  his  dish- washing  with  a  slow 
smile. 

"Which  do  you  think  is  more  important?"  He 
asked,  "for  a  man  to  please  his  father  or  his  best 
friend?" 

Lucy  suspected  a  trap  and  she  made  no  reply. 

"Did  you  ever  quote  any  of  my  poetry  to  father?" 
inquired  Hardy  casually.  "No?  Then  please  don't. 
But  I  '11  bet  if  you  told  him  I  was  catching  wild 
horses,  or  talking  reason  to  these  Mexican  herders, 
you  'd  have  the  old  man  coming.  He  's  a  fighter,  my 
father,  and  if  you  want  to  make  him  happy  when  you 
go  back,  tell  him  his  son  has  just  about  given  up 
literature  and  is  the  champion  bronco-twister  of  the 
Four  Peaks  range." 

"But  Ruf us— would  that  be  the  truth?" 

Hardy  laughed.  "Well,  pretty  near  it — but  I  'm 
trying  to  please  my  best  friend  now." 

"Oh,"  said  Lucy,  blushing.  "Will— will  that  make 
much  difference?"  she  asked. 

"All  the  difference  in  the  world,"  declared  Hardy 
warmly.  "You  want  me  to  become  a  poet — he  wants 
me  to  become  a  fighter.  Well  now,  since  I  have  n't 
Been  able  to  please  him,  I  'm  going  to  try  to  please 
you  for  a  while." 

"Oh,  Rufus,"  cried  Lucy,  "am  I  really — your  best 
friend?" 

[227] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Why  sure!  Did  n't  you  know  that?"  He  spoke 
the  words  with  a  bluff  good-fellowship  which  pleased 
her,  in  a  way,  but  at  the  same  time  left  her  silent. 
And  he,  too,  realized  that  there  was  a  false  note,  a  rift 
such  as  often  creeps  in  between  friends  and  if  not 
perceived  and  checked  widens  into  a  breach. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  quietly  making  his  amends, 
"when  I  was  a  boy  my  father  always  told  me  I  talked 
too  much;  and  after  mother  died  I— -well,  I  didn't 
talk  so  much.  I  was  intended  for  a  soldier,  you 
know,  and  good  officers  have  to  keep  their  own 
counsel.  But — well,  I  guess  the  habit  struck  in — so 
if  I  don't  always  thank  you,  or  tell  you  things,  you 
will  understand,  won't  you?  I  was  n't  raised  to 
please  folks,  you  know,  but  just  to  fight  Indians,  and 
all  that.  How  would  you  like  to  be  a  soldier's  wife?" 

"Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid,"  she  said.  "All  the 
fear  and  anxiety,  and — well,  I  'm  afraid  I  could  n't 
love  my  husband  if  he  killed  anybody."  She  paused 
and  glanced  up  at  him,  but  he  was  deep  in  thought. 

"My  mother  was  a  soldier's  wife,"  he  said,  at  last; 
and  Lucy,  seeing  where  his  thoughts  had  strayed,  re- 
spected his  silence.  It  was  something  she  had  learned 
long  before,  for  while  Rufus  would  sometimes  men- 
tion his  mother  he  would  never  talk  about  her,  even 
to  Lucy  Ware.  So  they  finished  their  housework, 
deep  in  their  own  thoughts.  But  when  at  last  they 

[228] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

stepped  out  into  the  sunshine  Lucy  touched  him  on 
the  arm. 

"Would  n't  you  like  to  bring  your  poems  with 
you?"  she  suggested.  "We  can  read  them  when  we 
have  found  the  spring.  Is  it  very  beautiful  up 
there?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Hardy,  "I  often  go  there  to  write, 
when  nobody  is  around.  You  know  Jeff  and  all  these 
cowboys  around  here  don't  know  that  I  write  verse. 
They  just  think  I  'm  a  little  fellow  from  somewhere 
up  in  California  that  can  ride  horses  pretty  good. 
But  if  I  had  handed  it  out  to  them  that  I  was  a  poet, 
or  even  a  college  man,  they  would  have  gone  to  tuck- 
ing snakes  into  my  blankets  and  dropping  chili  bravos 
into  my  beans  until  they  got  a  rise  out  of  me,  sure. 
I  learned  that  much  before  I  ever  came  up  here. 
But  I  Ve  got  a  little  place  I  call  my  garden — up  in 
the  canon,  above  Hidden  Water — and  sometimes  I 
sneak  off  up  there,  and  write.  Would  you  like  to  see 
a  poem  I  wrote  up  there?  All  right,  you  can  have 
the  rest  some  other  time."  He  stepped  into  the  store- 
room, extracted  a  little  bundle  from  his  war  bag,  and 
then  they  passed  on  up  the  valley  together. 

The  canon  of  the  Alamo  is  like  most  Arizona 
stream  beds,  a  strait- jacket  of  rocky  walls,  opening 
out  at  intervals  into  pocket-like  valleys,  such  as  the 
broad  and  fertile  flat  which  lay  below  Hidden  Water. 

[229] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

On  either  side  of  the  stream  the  banks  rise  in  benches, 
each  a  little  higher  and  broader  and  more  heavily 
covered:  the  first  pure  sand,  laid  on  by  the  last 
freshet;  the  next  grown  over  with  grass  and  weeds; 
the  next  bushed  up  with  baby  willows  and  arrow 
weed;  and  then,  the  high  bench,  studded  with  mesquite 
and  polo  verdes;  and  at  the  base  of  the  solid  rim  per- 
haps a  higher  level,  strewn  with  the  rocks  which  time 
and  the  elements  have  hurled  down  from  the  cliff,  and 
crested  with  ancient  trees.  Upon  such  a  high  bench 
stood  the  Dos  S  ranch  house,  with  trails  leading  off  up 
and  down  the  flat  or  plunging  down  the  bank,  the 
striated  cliff  behind  it  and  the  water-torn  valley  , 
below. 

Up  the  canon  a  deep-worn  path  led  along  the  base 
of  the  bluff;  and  as  the  two  best  friends  followed 
along  its  windings  Hardy  pointed  out  the  mysteries 
of  the  land :  strange  trees  and  shrubs,  bristling  with 
thorns;  cactus  in  its  myriad  forms;  the  birds  which 
flashed  past  them  or  sang  in  the  wild  gladness  of 
springtime;  lizards,  slipping  about  in  the  sands  or 
pouring  from  cracks  in  the  rocks — all  the  curious 
things  which  his  eyes  had  seen  and  his  mind  taken 
note  of  in  the  long  days  of  solitary  riding,  and  which 
his  poet's  soul  now  interpreted  into  a  higher  meaning 
for  the  woman  who  could  understand.  So  intent 
were  they  upon  the  wonders  of  that  great  display  that 

[230] 


THE     GARDEN     IN     THE     DESERT 

Lucy  hardly  noticed  where  they  were,  until  the  trail 
swung  abruptly  in  toward  the  cliff  and  they  seemed 
to  be  entering  a  cleft  in  the  solid  rock. 

"Where  do  we  go  now?"  she  asked,  and  Hardy 
laughed  at  her  confusion. 

"This  is  the  gate  to  Hidden  Water,"  he  said,  lower- 
ing his  voice  to  its  old-time  poetic  cadence.  "And 
strait  is  the  way  thereof,"  he  added,  as  he  led  her 
through  the  narrow  pass,  "but  within  are  tall  trees  and 
running  water,  and  the  eagle  nests  undisturbed 
among  the  crags." 

"What  are  you  quoting?"  exclaimed  Miss  Lucy, 
and  for  an  answer  Ruf us  beckoned  her  in  and  pointed 
with  his  hand.  Before  them  stood  the  tall  trees  with 
running  water  at  their  feet,  and  a  great  nest  of  sticks 
among  the  crags. 

"Hidden  Water!"  he  said,  and  smiled  again  mys- 
teriously. 

Then  he  led  the  way  along  the  side  of  the  stream, 
which  slipped  softly  over  the  water- worn  bowlders, 
dimpling  in  pool  after  pool,  until  at  the  very  gate  of 
the  valley  it  sank  into  the  sand  and  was  lost.  Higher 
and  higher  mounted  the  path;  and  then,  at  the  foot  of 
a  smooth  ledge  which  rose  like  a  bulwark  across  the 
gorge,  it  ended  suddenly  by  the  side  of  a  cattle- 
tracked  pool. 

"This  is  the  wall  to  my  garden,"  said  Hardy,  point- 

[231] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ing  to  the  huge  granite  dyke,  "beyond  which  only  the 
elect  may  pass."  He  paused,  and  glanced  over  at  her 
quizzically.  "The  path  was  not  made  for  ladies,  I  am 
afraid,"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  series  of  foot  holes 
which  ran  up  the  face  of  the  Iedge0  "Do  you  think 
you  can  climb  it?" 

Lucy  Ware  studied  his  face  for  a  moment;  then, 
turning  to  the  Indian  stairway,  she  measured  it  with 
a  practised  eye. 

"You  go  up  first,"  she  suggested,  and  when  he  had 
scaled  the  slippery  height  and  turned  he  found  her 
close  behind,  following  carefully  in  his  steps. 

"Well,  you  are  a  climber!"  he  cried  admiringly. 
"Here,  give  me  your  hand."  And  when  he  had 
helped  her  up  he  still  held  it — or  perhaps  she  clung 
to  his. 

Before  them  lay  a  little  glade,  shut  in  by  painted 
rocks,  upon  whose  black  sides  were  engraved  many 
curious  pictures,  the  mystic  symbols  of  the  Indians; 
and  as  they  stood  gazing  at  it  an  eagle  with  pointed 
wings  wheeled  slowly  above  them,  gazing  with  clear 
eyes  down  into  the  sunlit  vale.  From  her  round  nest 
in  the  crotch  of  a  sycamore  a  great  horned  owl 
plunged  out  at  their  approach  and  glided  noiselessly 
away;  and  in  the  stillness  the  zooning  of  bees 
among  the  rocks  came  to  their  ears  like  distant  music. 
Beneath  their  feet  the  grass  grew  long  and  matted, 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

shot  here  and  there  with  the  blue  and  gold  of 
flowers,  like  the  rich  meadows  of  the  East;  and 
clustering  along  the  hillsides,  great  bunches  of 
grama  grass  waved  their  plumes  proudly,  the  last 
remnant  of  all  that  world  of  feed  which  had  clothed 
the  land  like  a  garment  before  the  days  of  the  sheep. 
For  here,  at  least,  there  came  no  nibbling  wethers,  nor 
starving  cattle;  and  the  mountain  sheep  which  had 
browsed  there  in  the  old  days  were  now  hiding  on 
the  topmost  crags  of  the  Superstitions  to  escape  the 
rifles  of  the  destroyers.  All  the  world  without  was 
laid  waste  and  trampled  by  hurrying  feet,  but  the 
garden  of  Hidden  Water  was  still  kept  inviolate,  a 
secret  shrine  consecrate  to  Nature  and  Nature's  God. 

As  she  stood  in  the  presence  of  all  its  beauty  a  mist 
came  into  Lucy's  eyes  and  she  turned  away. 

"Oh,  Rufus,"  she  cried,  "why  don't  you  live  up  here 
always  instead  of  wasting  your  life  in  that  awful 
struggle  with  the  sheep  ?  You  could — why,  you  could 
do  anything  up  here!" 

"Yes,"  assented  Hardy,  "it  is  a  beautiful  spot — I 
often  come  up  here  when  I  am  weary  with  it  all — 
but  a  man  must  do  a  man's  work,  you  know;  and  my 
work  is  with  the  sheep.  When  I  first  came  to  Hidden 
Water  I  knew  nothing  of  the  sheep.  I  thought  the 
little  lambs  were  pretty;  the  ewes  were  mothers,  the 
herders  human  beings.  I  tried  to  be  friends  with 

[233] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

them,  to  keep  the  peace  and  abide  by  the  law;  but  now 
that  I  've  come  to  know  them  I  agree  with  Jeff,  who 
has  been  fighting  them  for  twenty  years.  There  is 
something  about  the  smell  of  sheep  which  robs  men 
of  their  humanity;  they  become  greedy  and  avari- 
cious; the  more  they  make  the  more  they  want.  Of 
all  the  sheepmen  that  I  know  there  is  n't  one  who 
would  go  around  me  out  of  friendship  or  pity — and 
I  have  done  favors  for  them  all.  But  they  're  no 
friends  of  mine  now,"  he  added  ominously.  "I  have 
to  respect  my  friends,  and  I  can't  respect  a  man  who 
is  all  hog.  There  's  no  pretence  on  either  side  now, 
though — they  're  trying  to  sheep  us  out  and  we  are 
trying  to  fight  them  off,  and  if  it  ever  comes  to  a 
show-down — well — ' ' 

He  paused,  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  a  strange 
light. 

"You  know  I  have  n't  very  much  to  live  for,  Miss 
Lucy,"  he  said  earnestly,  "but  if  I  had  all  that  God 
could  give  me  I  'd  stand  by  Jeff  against  the  sheep. 
It 's  all  right  to  be  a  poet  or  an  artist,  a  lover  of  truth 
and  beauty,  and  all  that,  but  if  a  man  won't  stand 
up  for  his  friends  when  they  're  in  trouble  he  's  a  kind 
of  closet  philosopher  that  shrinks  from  all  the  realities 
of  life — a  poor,  puny  creature,  at  the  best." 

He  stood  up  very  straight  as  he  poured  out  this 
torrent  of  words,  gazing  at  her  intently,  but  with  his 

[234] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

eyes  set,  as  if  he  beheld  some  vision.  Yet  whether  it 
was  of  himself  and  Jeff,  fighting  their  hopeless  battle 
against  the  sheep,  or  of  his  life  as  it  might  have  been  if 
Kitty  had  been  as  gentle  with  him  as  this  woman  by  his 
side,  there  was  no  telling.  His  old  habit  of  reticence 
fell  back  upon  him  as  suddenly  as  it  had  been  cast 
aside,  and  he  led  the  way  up  the  little  stream  in  silence. 
As  he  walked,  the  ardor  of  his  passion  cooled,  and  he 
began  to  point  out  things  with  his  eloquent  hands — 
the  minnows,  wheeling  around  in  the  middle  of  a 
glassy  pool;  a  striped  bullfrog,  squatting  within  the 
spray  of  a  waterfall ;  huge  combs  of  honey,  hanging 
from  shelving  caverns  along  the  cliff  where  the  wild 
bees  had  stored  their  plunder  for  years.  At  last,  as 
they  stood  before  a  drooping  elder  whose  creamy 
blossoms  swayed  beneath  the  weight  of  bees,  he 
halted  and  motioned  to  a  shady  seat  against  the 
canon  wall. 

"There  are  gardens  in  every  desert,"  he  said,  as  she 
sank  down  upon  the  grassy  bank,  "but  this  is  ours." 

They  sat  for  a  while,  gazing  contentedly  at  the 
clusters  of  elder  blossoms  which  hung  above  them, 
filling  the  air  with  a  rich  fragrance  which  was  spiced 
by  the  tang  of  sage.  A  ruby-throated  humming-bird 
flashed  suddenly  past  them  and  was  gone;  a  red- 
shafted  woodpecker,  still  more  gorgeous  in  his  scarlet 
plumage,  descended  in  uneven  flights  from  the 

[235] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sdhuaros  that  clung  against  the  cliff  and,  fastening 
upon  a  hollow  tree,  set  up  a  mysterious  rapping. 

"He  is  hunting  for  grubs/'  explained  Hardy. 
"Does  that  inspire  you?" 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Lucy,  puzzled. 

"The  Mexicans  call  him  pajaro  corazon — pdh-hah- 
ro  cor-ah-sone"  continued  the  poet.  "Does  that 
appeal  to  your  soul?" 

"Why,  no.     What  does  it  mean — woodpecker?" 

Hardy  smiled.  "JSTo,"  he  said,  "a  woodpecker  with 
them  is  called  carplntero — carpenter,  you  understand 
— because  he  hammers  on  trees ;  but  my  friend  up  on 
the  stump  yonder  is  Pajaro  Corazon — bird  of  the 
heart.  I  have  a  poem  dedicated  to  him."  Then,  as 
if  to  excuse  himself  from  the  reading,  he  hastened  on : 
"Of  course,  no  true  poet  would  commit  such  a  breach 
— he  would  write  a  sonnet  to  his  lady's  eyebrow,  a 
poem  in  memory  of  a  broken  dream,  or  some  sad 
lament  for  Love,  which  has  died  simultaneously  with 
his  own  blasted  hopes.  But  a  sense  of  my  own  unim- 
portance has  saved  me — or  the  world,  at  any  rate — 
from  such  laments.  Pajaro  Corazon  and  Chupa 
Rosa,  a  little  humming-bird  who  lives  in  that  elder 
tree,  have  been  my  only  friends  and  companions  in 
the  muse,  until  you  came.  I  would  n't  abuse  Chupa 
Rosa's  confidence  by  reading  my  poem  to  her.  Her 
lover  has  turned  out  a  worthless  fellow  and  left  her — 

[236] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

that  was  him  you  saw  flying  past  just  now,  going  up 
the  canon  to  sport  around  with  the  other  hummers — 
but  here  is  my  poem  to  Pajaro  Corazon." 

He  drew  forth  his  bundle  of  papers  and  in  a  shame- 
faced way  handed  one  of  them  to  Lucy.  It  was  a 
slip  of  yellow  note  paper,  checked  along  the  margin 
with  groups  of  rhyming  words  and  scansion  marks, 
and  in  the  middle  this  single  verse. 

"Pa j  aro  Corazon !     Bird  of  the  Heart ! 
Some  knight  of  honor  in  those  bygone  days 
Of  dreams  and  gold  and  quests  through  desert  lands, 
Seeing  thy  blood-red  heart  flash  in  the  rays 
Of  setting  sun — which  lured  him  far  from  Spain- 
Lifted  his  face  and,  reading  there  a  sign 
From  his  dear  lady,  crossed  himself  and  spake 
Then  first,  the  name  which  still  is  thine." 

Lucy  folded  the  paper  arid  gazed  across  at  him 
rapturously. 

"Oh,  Rufus,"  she  cried,  "why  did  n't  you  send  it  to 
me?" 

"Is  it  good?"  asked  Hardy,  forgetting  his  pose;  and 
when  she  nodded  solemnly  he  said: 

"There  is  another  verse — look  on  the  other  side." 

Lucy  turned  the  paper  over  quickly  and  read  again : 

"Pajaro  Corazon !     Bird  of  the  Heart ! 
Some  Padre,  wayworn,  stooping  towards  his  grave, 
Whom  God  by  devious  ways  had  sent  so  far, 
So  far  from  Spain — still  pressing  on  to  save 
[237] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

The  souls  He  loved,  now,  raising  up  his  eyes 
And  seeing  on  thy  breast  the  bleeding  heart 
Of  Jesus,  cast  his  robes  aside  and  spake 
Thy  name — and  set  that  place  apart." 

As  she  followed  the  lines  Hardy  watched  her  face 
with  eyes  that  grew  strangely  soft  and  gentle.  It 
was  Lucy  Ware  of  all  the  world  who  understood  him. 
Others  laughed,  or  pitied,  or  overdid  it,  or  remained 
unmoved,  but  Lucy  with  her  trusting  blue  eyes  and 
broad  poet's  brow — a  brow  which  always  made  him 
think  of  Mrs.  Browning  who  was  a  poet  indeed,  she 
always  read  his  heart,  in  her  he  could  safely  trust. 
And  now,  when  those  dear  eyes  filled  up  with  tears 
he  could  have  taken  her  hand,  yes,  he  could  have 
kissed  her — if  he  had  not  been  afraid. 

"Rufus,"  she  said  at  last,  "y°u  are  a  poet."  And 
then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"Let  me  read  some  more,"  she  pleaded;  but  Hardy 
held  the  bundle  resolutely  away. 

"No,"  he  said  gently,  "it  is  enough  to  have  pleased 
you  once.  You  know  poetry  is  like  music;  it  is  an 
expression  of  thoughts  which  are  more  than  thoughts. 
They  come  up  out  of  the  great  sea  of  our  inner  soul 
like  the  breath  of  flowers  from  a  hidden  garden,  like 
the  sound  of  breakers  from  the  ocean  cliffs ;  but  not 
every  one  can  scent  their  fragrance,  and  some  ears  are 
too  dull  to  hear  music  in  the  rush  of  waters.  And 

[238] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

when  one  has  caught  the  music  of  another's  song  then 
it  is  best  to  stop  before — before  some  discord  comes. 
Lucy,"  he  began,  as  his  soul  within  him  rose  up  and 
clamored  for  it  knew  not  what,  "Lucy- 
He  paused,  and  the  woman  hung  upon  his  lips  to 
catch  the  words. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  but  the  thought  had  suddenly  left 
him.  It  was  a  great  longing — that  he  knew — a  great 
desire,  unsensed  because  unknown — but  deep,  deep. 

"Yes — Rufus?"  she  breathed,  leaning  over;  but  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes  and  he  gazed  at  her 
strangely. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  murmured,  "nothing.  I — I 
have  forgotten  what  I  was  going  to  say."  He  sighed, 
and  looked  moodily  at  his  feet.  "The  thoughts  of  a 
would-be  poet,"  he  mused,  cynically.  "How  valu- 
able they  are — how  the  world  must  long  for  them — 
when  he  even  forgets  them  himself!  I  guess  I  'd 
better  keep  still  and  let  you  talk  a  while,"  he  ended, 
absently.  But  Lucy  Ware  sat  gazing  before  her  in 
silence. 

"Isn't  it  time  we  returned?"  she  asked,  after  a 
while.  "You  know  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do." 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  said  Hardy,  easily,  "I  '11  help 
you.  What  do  you  want  to  do — clean  house?" 

Lucy  could  have  cried  at  her  hero's  sudden  lapse — 
from  Parnassus  to  the  scullery,  from  love  to  the  com- 

[239] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

monplaces  of  living;  but  she  had  schooled  herself  to 
bear  with  him,  since  patience  is  a  woman's  part.  Yet 
her  honest  blue  eyes  were  not  adapted  to  concealment 
and,  furtively  taking  note  of  her  distress,  Hardy  fell 
into  the  role  of  a  penitent. 

"Is  my  garden  such  a  poor  place,"  he  inquired 
gravely,  "that  you  must  leave  it  the  moment  we  have 
come?  You  have  not  even  seen  Chupa  Rosa" 

"Well,  show  me  Chupa  Rosa — and  then  we  will 
go." 

She  spoke  the  words  reluctantly,  rising  slowly  to 
her  feet;  and  Hardy  knew  that  in  some  hidden  way 
lie  had  hurt  her,  yet  in  what  regard  he  could  not  tell. 
A  vague  uneasiness  came  over  him  and  he  tried  awk- 
wardly to  make  amends  for  his  fault,  but  good  inten- 
tions never  yet  crossed  a  river  or  healed  a  breach. 

"Here  is  her  nest,"  he  said,  "almost  above  our  seat. 
Look,  Lucy,  it  is  made  out  of  willow  down  and 
spider  webs,  bound  round  and  round  the  twig.  Don't 
you  want  to  see  the  eggs  ?  Look !"  He  bent  the  limb 
until  the  dainty  white  treasures,  half  buried  in  the 
fluffy  down,  were  revealed — but  still  she  did  not  smile. 

"Oh,  stop,  Rufus!"  she  cried,  "what  will  the  mother- 
bird  think?  She  might  be  frightened  at  us  and  leave 
her  nest.  Come,  let 's  hurry  away  before  she  sees  us !" 

She  turned  and  walked  quickly  down  the  valley, 

[240] 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  DESERT 

never  pausing  to  look  back,  even  when  Ruf  us  stopped 
to  pluck  a  flower  from  among  the  rocks. 

"Here,"  he  said,  after  he  had  helped  her  down  the 
Indian  stairway;  and  when  she  held  up  her  hand, 
passively,  he  dropped  a  forget-me-not  into  it. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  carried  away  for  a  moment,  "do 
they  grow  down  here?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  soberly,  "even  here.  And  they — 
sometimes  you  find  them  where  you  would  n't  expect 
— in  rough  places,  you  know,  and  among  the  stones. 
I — I  hope  you  will  keep  it,"  he  said,  simply.  And 
Lucy  divined  what  was  in  his  heart,  better  perhaps 
than  he  himself;  but  when  at  last  she  was  alone  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  for  a  long  time  the 
house  was  very  still. 


16 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   SNOW-SCENE 

HHHERE  was  a  big  fire  out  under  the  mesquite 
that  night  and  a  band  of  cowboys,  in  all  the 
bravery  of  spurs,  shaps,  and  pistols,  romped  around  it 
in  a  stage-struck  exuberance  of  spirits.  The  night 
was  hardly  cold  enough  to  call  for  fringed  leather 
chaparejos,  and  their  guns  should  have  been  left  in 
their  blankets;  nor  are  long-shanked  Texas  spurs 
quite  the  proper  thing  about  camp,  having  a  dirty 
way  of  catching  and  tripping  their  wearers;  but  the 
rodeo  outfit  felt  that  it  was  on  dress  parade  and  was 
trying  its  best  to  look  the  cowboy  part.  Bill  Light- 
foot,  even  had  a  red  silk  handkerchief  draped  about 
his  neck,  with  the  slack  in  front,  like  a  German 
napkin;  and  his  cartridge  belt  was  slung  so  low  that 
it  threatened  every  moment  to  drop  his  huge  Colt's 
revolver  into  the  dirt — but  who  could  say  a  word? 

The  news  of  Judge  Ware's  visit  had  passed 
through  the  Four  Peaks  country  like  the  rumor  of 
an  Indian  uprising  and  every  man  rode  into  Hidden 
Water  with  an  eye  out  for  calico,  some  with  a  fool- 
ish grin,  some  downcast  and  reserved,  some  swag- 

[242] 


A    SNOW-SCENE 

gering  in  the  natural  pride  of  the  lady's  man.  But 
a  becoming  modesty  had  kept  Lucy  Ware  indoors, 
and  Kitty  had  limited  herself  to  a  furtive  survey  of 
the  scene  from  behind  what  was  left  of  Sallie  Win- 
ship's  lace  curtains.  With  the  subtle  wisdom  of  a 
rodeo  boss  Jefferson  Creede  had  excused  himself 
to  the  ladies  at  the  first  sound  of  jangling  horse-bells, 
and  now  he  kept  resolutely  away  from  the  house, 
busying  himself  with  the  manifold  duties  of  his  posi- 
tion. To  the  leading  questions  of  Bill  Lightf oot  and 
the  "fly  bunch"  which  followed  his  lead  he  turned  a 
deaf  ear  or  replied  in  unsatisfying  monosyllables; 
and  at  last,  as  the  fire  lit  up  the  trees  and  flickered 
upon  their  guns  and  silver-mounted  trappings  and 
no  fair  maids  sallied  forth  to  admire  them,  the  over- 
wrought emotions  of  the  cowboys  sought  expression 
in  song. 

"Oh  my  little  girl  she  lives  in  the  town," 

chanted  Lightfoot,  and  the  fly  bunch,  catching  the 
contagion,  joined  promptly  in  on  the  refrain: 

"A  toodle  link,  a  toodle  link,  a  too — oo-dle  a  day!" 

At  this  sudden  and  suggestive  outbreak  Jeff 
Creede  surveyed  Bill  Lightfoot  coldly  and  puffed 
on  his  cigarette.  Bill  was  always  trying  to  make 
trouble. 

"And  every  time  I  see  'er,  slie  asts  me  f'r  a  gown,'* 

[213] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

carolled  the  leading  cowboy;  and  the  bunch,  not  to 
seem  faint-hearted,  chimed  in  again: 

"Reladin  to  reladin,  and  reladin  to  relate!" 

Now  they  were  verging  toward  the  sensational 
part  of  the  ballad,  the  place  where  a  real  gentleman 
would  quit,  but  Lightfoot  only  tossed  his  head 
defiantly. 

"O-Oh—  "  he  began,  and  then  he  stopped  with  his 
mouth  open.  The  rodeo  boss  had  suddenly  risen 
to  an  upright  position  and  fixed  him  with  his  eye. 

"I  like  to  see  you  boys  enjoyin'  yourselves,"  he 
observed,  quietly,  "but  please  don't  discuss  politics 
or  religion  while  them  ladies  is  over  at  the  house. 
You  better  switch  off  onto  'My  Bonnie  Lies  over  the 
Ocean/  Bill."  And  Bill  switched. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded  aggrieved, 
"ain't  anybody  but  you  got  any  rights  and  privileges 
around  here?  You  go  sportin'  around  and  havin'  a 
good  time  all  day,  but  as  soon  as  one  of  us  punchers 
opens  his  mouth  you  want  to  jump  down  his  throat. 
What  do  we  know  about  ladies — I  ain't  seen  none!" 

The  discussion  of  the  moral  code  which  followed 
was  becoming  acrimonious  and  personal  to  a  degree 
when  a  peal  of  girlish  laughter  echoed  from  the 
ranch  house  and  the  cowboys  beheld  Judge  Ware 

[244] 


A    SNOW-SCENE 

and  Hardy,  accompanied  by  Miss  Lucy  and  Kitty 
Bonnair,  coming  towards  their  fire.  A  less  tactful 
man  might  have  taken  advantage  of  the  hush  to  utter 
a  final  word  of  warning  to  his  rebellious  subjects,  but 
Creede  knew  Kitty  Bonnair  and  the  human  heart 
too  well.  As  the  party  came  into  camp  he  rose 
quietly  and  introduced  the  judge  and  the  ladies  to 
every  man  present,  without  deviation  and  without 
exception,  and  then,  having  offered  Miss  Ware  his 
cracker  box,  he  moved  over  a  man  or  two  and  sat 
down. 

In  the  bulk  of  his  mighty  frame,  the  rugged  power 
of  his  countenance,  and  the  unconscious  authority  of 
his  words  he  was  easily  master  of  them  all;  but  though 
he  had  the  voice  of  Mars  and  a  head  like  Olympian 
Zeus  he  must  needs  abase  his  proud  spirit  to  the 
demands  of  the  occasion,  for  the  jealousy  of  mortal 
man  is  a  proverb.  Where  the  punchers  that  he  hired 
for  thirty  dollars  a  month  were  decked  out  in  shaps 
and  handkerchiefs  he  sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  over- 
alls, with  only  his  high-heeled  boots  and  the  enormous 
black  sombrero  which  he  always  wore,  to  mark  him 
for  their  king.  And  the  first  merry  question  which 
Miss  Kitty  asked  he  allowed  to  pass  unnoticed,  until 
Bill  Lightfoot — to  save  the  credit  of  the  bunch — 
answered  it  himself. 

[245] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied  politely.  "That  was  a 
genuwine  cowboy  song  we  was  singin' — we  sing  'em 
to  keep  the  cattle  awake  at  night." 

"Oh,  how  interesting!"  exclaimed  Kitty,  leaning 
forward  in  her  eagerness.  "But  why  do  you  try  to 
keep  them  awake?  I  should  think  they  would  be  so 
tired,  after  travelling  all  day." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  responded  Bill,  twisting  his  silk 
handkerchief  nervously,  "but  if  they  go  to  sleep  and 
anything  wakes  'em  up  quick  they  stompede — so  we 
ride  through  'em  and  sing  songs." 

"Just  think  of  that,  Lucy!"  cried  Miss  Kitty  en- 
thusiastically. "And  it  was  such  a  pretty  tune,  too ! 
Won't  you  sing  it  again,  Mr.  Lightfoot?  I  'd  just 
love  to  hear  it!" 

Here  was  a  facer  for  Mr.  Lightfoot,  and  Jefferson 
Creede,  to  whom  all  eyes  were  turned  in  the  crisis, 
smiled  maliciously  and  let  him  sweat. 

"Bill  ain't  in  very  good  voice  to-night,"  he  observed 
at  last,  as  the  suspense  became  unbearable,  "and 
we  're  kinder  bashful  about  singin'  to  company,  any- 
way. But  if  you  want  to  hear  somethin'  good,  you 
want  to  git  Bill  goin'  about  Coloraydo.  Sure,  Mr. 
Lightfoot  is  our  best  story-teller ;  and  he  's  had  some 
mighty  excitin'  times  up  there  in  them  parts,  hain't 
you,  Bill?" 

Bill  cast  a  baleful  glance  at  his  rival  and  thrust 

[246] 


A    SNOW-SCENE 

out  his  chin  insolently.  His  Coloraydo  experiences 
were  a  matter  of  jest  with  Jeff  Creede,  but  with  the 
ladies  it  might  be  different.  His  courage  rose  before 
the  flattering  solicitude  of  Kitty  Bonnair  and  he  re- 
solved then  and  there  to  fool  Mr.  Creede  or  know 
the  reason  why. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  stoutly,  "they  may  look  kinder 
tame  alongside  of  your  Arizona  lies,  but — " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lightfoot,  do  tell  me  all  about  it!"  broke 
in  Kitty,  with  an  alluring  smile.  "Colorado  is  an 
awfully  wild  country,  isn't  it?  And  did  you  ever 
have  any  adventures  with  bears?" 

"Bears!"  exclaimed  Bill  contemptuously.  "Bears! 
Huh,  we  don't  take  no  more  account  of  ordinary 
bears  up  in  Coloraydo  than  they  do  of  coons  down 
here.  But  them  big  silver-tips — ump-um— excuse 
me!"  He  paused  and  swaggered  a  little  on  the 
precarious  support  of  his  cracker  box.  "And  yet, 
Miss  Bunnair,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  con- 
fidential key,  "I  slept  a  whole  night  with  one  of 
them  big  fellers  and  never  turned  a  hair.  I  could  Ve 
killed  him  the  next  day,  too,  but  I  was  so  grateful  to 
him  I  spared  his  life." 

This  was  the  regular  "come-on"  for  Lightfoot's 
snow-storm  story,  and  Creede  showed  his  white  teeth 
scornfully  as  Bill  leaned  back  and  began  the  yarn. 

"You  see,  Miss  Bunnair,"  began  the  Colorado  cow- 

[247] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

boy,  rolling  his  eyes  about  the  circle  to  quell  any 
tendency  to  give  him  away,  "Coloraydo  is  an  alto- 
gether different  country  from  this  here.  The  moun- 
tains is  mighty  steep  and  brushy,  with  snow  on  the 
peaks,  and  the  cactus  ain't  more  'n  a  inch  high  out 
on  the  perairie.  But  they  's  plenty  of  feed  and  water 
— you  betcher  life  I  wisht  I  was  back  there  now  in- 
stead of  fightin'  sheep  down  here!  The  only  thing 
aginst  that  country  up  there  is  the  blizzards.  Them 
storms  is  very  destructive  to  life.  Yes,  ma'am. 
They  's  never  any  notice  given  but  suddenly  the  wind 
will  begin  to  blow  and  the  cattle  will  begin  to  drift, 
and  then  about  the  time  your  horse  is  give  out  and 
your  ears  frozen  it  '11  begin  to  snow! 

"Well,  this  time  I  'm  tellin'  about  I  was  up  on  the 
Canadian  River  west  of  the  Medicine  Bow  Mountains 
and  she  came  on  to  snow — and  snow,  I  thought  it 
would  bury  me  alive!  I  was  lost  in  a  big  park — a 
kind  of  plain  or  perairie  among  the  mountains. 
Yes  'm,  they  have  'm  there — big  level  places — and  it 
was  thirty  miles  across  this  here  level  perairie.  The 
wind  was  bio  win'  something  awful  and  the  snow  just 
piled  up  on  my  hat  like  somebody  was  shovellin'  it  off 
a  roof,  but  I  kept  strugglin'  on  and  tryin'  to  git  to 
the  other  side,  or  maybe  find  some  sheltered  place, 
until  it  was  like  walkin'  in  your  sleep.  And  that 
light  fluffy  snow  jest  closed  in  over  me  until  I  was 

[248] 


A    SNOW- SCENE 

covered  up  ten  feet  deep.  Of  course  my  horse  had 
give  out  long  ago,  and  I  was  jest  beginnin'  to  despair 
when  I  corne  across  one  of  them  big  piles  of  rocks 
they  have  up  there,  scattered  around  promiscus-like 
on  the  face  of  nature;  and  I  begin  crawlin'  in  and 
crawlin'  in,  hopin'  to  find  some  cave  or  somethin', 
and  jest  as  I  was  despairin'  my  feet  fell  into  a  kind 
of  trail,  kinder  smooth  and  worn,  but  old,  you  know, 
and  stomped  hard  under  the  snow.  Well,  I  follers 
along  this  path  with  my  feet  until  it  come  to  a  hole 
in  the  rocks;  and  when  I  come  to  that  hole  I  went 
right  in,  fer  I  was  desprit;  and  I  crawled  in  and 
crawled  in  until  I  come  to  a  big  nest  of  leaves,  and 
then  I  begin  to  burrow  down  into  them  leaves.  And 
as  soon  as  I  had  made  a  hole  I  pulled  them  leaves 
over  me  and  fell  to  sleep,  I  was  that  exhausted. 

"But  after  a  while  I  had  some  awful  bad  dreams, 
and  when  I  woke  up  I  felt  somethin'  kickin'  under 
me.  Yes  'm,  that 's  right ;  I  felt  somethin'  kinder 
movin'  around  and  squirmin',  and  when  I  begin  to 
investergate  I  found  I  was  layin'  down  right  square 
on  top  of  a  tremenjous  big  grizzly  bear!  Well,  you 
fellers  can  laugh,  but  I  was,  all  the  same.  What  do 
you  know  about  it,  you  woolies,  punchin'  cows  down 
here  in  the  rocks  and  cactus  ? 

"How's  that,  Miss  Bunnair?  W'y  sure,  he  was 
hibernatin'  !  They  all  hibernate  up  in  them  cold 

[249] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

countries.  Well,  the  funny  part  of  this  was  that 
Old  Brin  had  gone  to  sleep  suckin'  his  off  fore  foot, 
jest  like  a  little  baby,  and  when  I  had  piled  in  on  top 
of  him  I  had  knocked  his  paw  out  of  his  mouth  and  he 
was  tryin9  to  git  it  back.  But  he  was  all  quilled  up 
with  himself  under  them  leaves,  and  his  claws  was  so 
long  he  could  n't  git  that  foot  back  into  his  mouth 
nohow.  He  snooped  and  grabbed  and  fumbled,  and 
every  minute  he  was  gittin'  madder  and  madder,  a- 
suckin'  and  slobberin'  like  a  calf  tryin'  to  draw  milk 
out  of  the  hired  man's  thumb,  and  a-gruntin'  and 
groanin'  somethin'  awful. 

"Well,  I  see  my  finish  in  about  a  minute  if  he  ever 
got  good  an'  woke  up,  so  I  resolved  to  do  somethin' 
desprit.  I  jest  naturally  grabbed  onto  that  foot  and 
twisted  it  around  and  stuck  it  into  his  mouth  myself! 
Afraid?  Ump-um,  not  me — the  only  thing  I  was 
afraid  of  was  that  he  'd  git  my  hand  and  go  to  suckin' 
it  by  mistake.  But  when  I  steered  his  paw  around 
in  front  of  him  he  jest  grabbed  onto  that  big  black 
pad  on  the  bottom  of  his  foot  like  it  was  m'lasses 
candy,  and  went  off  to  sleep  again  as  peaceful  as  a 
kitten." 

The  man  from  Coloraydo  ended  his  tale  abruptly, 
with  an  air  of  suspense,  and  Kitty  Bonnair  took  the 
cue. 

"What  did  I  do  then?"  demanded  Lightfoot,  with 

[250] 


A    SNOW- SCENE 

a  reminiscent  smile,  "Well,  it  was  a  ground-hog  case 
with  me — if  I  moved  1 5d  freeze  to  death  and  if  I 
knocked  his  paw  out  'n  his  mouth  again  he  'd  mash 
my  face  in  with  it — so  I  jest  snuggled  down  against 
him,  tucked  my  head  under  his  chin,  and  went  to 
sleep,  holding  that  paw  in  his  mouth  with  both 
hands." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lightfoot,"  exclaimed  Kitty,  "how  could 
you?  Why,  that's  the  most  remarkable  experience 
I  ever  heard  of !  Lucy,  I  'm  going  to  put  that  story 
in  my  book  when  I  get  home,  and — but  what  are  you 
laughing  at,  Mr.  Creede?" 

"Who?  Me?"  inquired  Jeff,  who  had  been  rocking 
about  as  if  helpless  with  laughter.  "W'y,  I  ain't 
laughin'l" 

"Yes,  you  are  too!"  accused  Miss  Kitty.  "And  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  it  is.  Don't  you  think  Mr. 
Lightfoot's  story  is  true?" 

"True?"  echoed  Creede,  soberly.  "W'y,  sure  it 's 
true.  I  ain't  never  been  up  in  those  parts ;  but  if  Bill 
says  so,  that  settles  it.  I  never  knew  a  feller  from 
Coloraydo  yet  that  could  tell  a  lie.  No,  I  was  jest 
laughin'  to  think  of  that  old  bear  suckin'  his  paw  that 
way." 

He  added  this  last  with  such  an  air  of  subterfuge 
and  evasion  that  Kitty  was  not  deceived  for  a 
moment. 

[251] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"No,  you  're  not,  Mr.  Creede,"  she  cried,  "you  're 
just  making  fun  of  me — so  there!" 

She  stamped  her  foot  and  pouted  prettily,  and  the 
big  cowboy's  face  took  on  a  look  of  great  concern. 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  he  protested,  "but  since  it 's  gone 
so  far  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  come  through  now  in 
order  to  square  myself. ,  Of  course  I  never  had  no 
real  adventures,  you  know, — nothin'  that  you  would 
care  to  write  down  or  put  in  a  book,  like  Bill's, — but 
jest  hearin'  him  tell  that  story  of  gittin'  snowed  in 
reminded  me  of  a  little  experience  I  had  up  north 
here  in  Coconino  County.  You  know  Arizona  ain't 
all  sand  and  cactus — not  by  no  means.  Them  San 
Francisco  Mountains  up  above  Flag  are  sure  snow- 
crested  and  covered  with  tall  timber  and  it  gits  so 
cold  up  there  in  the  winter-time  that  it  breaks  rocks. 
No,  that 's  straight !  Them  prospectors  up  there 
when  they  run  short  of  powder  jest  drill  a  line  of 
holes  in  a  rock  and  when  one  of  them  awful  cold  snaps 
comes  on  they  run  out  and  fill  the  holes  up  with  hot 
water  out  of  the  tea-kittle.  Well,  sir,  when  that  water 
freezes,  which  it  does  in  about  a  minute,  it  jest 
naturally  busts  them  rocks  wide  open — but  that  ain't 
what  I  started  to  tell  you  about." 

He  paused  and  contemplated  his  hearers  with  im- 
pressive dignity. 

"Cold  ain't  nothin',"  he  continued  gravely,  "after 

[252] 


A    SNOW -SCENE 

you  git  used  to  it;  but  once  in  a  while,  ladies,  she 
snows  up  there.  And  when  I  say  'snows'  I  don't 
refer  to  such  phenominer  as  Bill  was  tellin'  about  up 
in  Coloraydo,  but  the  real  genuwine  Arizona  article — 
the  kind  that  gits  started  and  can't  stop,  no  more  'n  a 
cloudburst.  Well,  one  time  I  was  knockin'  around 
up  there  in  Coconino  when  I  ought  to  Ve  been  at 
home,  and  I  come  to  a  big  plain  or  perairie  that  was 
seventy  miles  across,  and  I  got  lost  on  that  big  plain, 
right  in  the  dead  of  winter.  They  was  an  awful  cold 
wind  blowin'  at  the  time,  but  I  could  see  the  moun- 
tains on  the  other  side  and  so  I  struck  out  for  'em. 
But  jest  as  I  got  in  the  middle  of  that  great  plain  or 
perairie,  she  come  on  to  snow.  At  first  she  come 
straight  down,  kinder  soft  and  fluffy;  then  she  began 
to  beat  in  from  the  sides,  and  the  flakes  began  to  git 
bigger  and  bigger,  until  I  felt  like  the  Chinaman  that 
walked  down  Main  Street  when  they  had  that  snow- 
storm in  Tucson.  Yes,  sir,  it  was  jest  like  havin' 
every  old  whiskey  bum  in  town  soakin'  you  with 
snow-balls — and  all  the  kids  thrown  in. 

"My  horse  he  began  to  puff  and  blow  and  the  snow 
began  to  bank  up  higher  and  higher  in  front  of  us 
and  on  top  of  us  until,  bymeby,  he  could  n't  stand  no 
more,  and  he  jest  laid  down  and  died.  Well,  of 
course  that  put  me  afoot  and  I  was  almost  despairin'. 
The  snow  was  stacked  up  on  top  of  me  about  ten  feet 

[253] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

deep  and  I  was  desprit,  but  I  kept  surgin'  right 
ahead,  punchin'  a  hole  through  that  fluffy  stuff,  until 
she  was  twenty  foot  deep.  But  I  was  n't  afraid  none 
' — ump-um,  not  me — I  jest  kept  a-crawlin'  and  a- 
crawlin',  hopin'  to  find  some  rocks  or  shelter,  until 
she  stacked  up  on  top  of  me  thirty  foot  deep.  Thir- 
ty foot — and  slumped  down  on  top  o'  me  until  I  felt 
like  a  horny-toad  under  a  haystack.  Well,  I  was 
gittin'  powerful  weak  and  puny,  but  jest  as  I  was 
despairin'  I  come  across  a  big  rock,  right  out  there  in 
the  middle  of  that  great  plain  or  perairie.  I  tried 
to  crawl  around  that  old  rock  but  the  snow  was  pushin' 
down  so  heavy  on  top  o'  me  I  could  n't  do  nothin', 
and  so  when  she  was  fif-ty-two  foot  deep  by  actual 
measurement  I  jest  give  out  an'  laid  down  to  die." 

Pie  paused  and  fixed  a  speculative  eye  on  Bill 
Lightfoot. 

"I  reckon  that  would  be  considered  pretty  deep  up 
in  Coloraydo,"  he  suggested,  and  then  he  began  to 
roll  a  cigarette.  Sitting  in  rigid  postures  before  the 
fire  the  punchers  surveyed  his  face  with  slow  and  sus- 
picious glances;  and  for  once  Kitty  Bonnair  was 
silent,  watching  his  deliberate  motions  with  a  troubled 
frown.  Balanced  rakishly  upon  his  cracker  box  Bill 
Lightfoot  regarded  his  rival  with  a  sneering  smile,  a 
retort  trembling  on  his  lips,  but  Creede  only  leaned 

[254] 


fA    SNOW-SCENE 

forward  and  picked  a  smoking  brand  from  the  fire- 
he  was  waiting  for  the  "come-on." 

Now  to  ask  the  expected  question  at  the  end  of 
such  a  story  was  to  take  a  big  chance.  Having  been 
bitten  a  time  or  two  all  around,  the  rodeo  hands  were 
wary  of  Jeff  Creede  and  his  barbed  jests;  the  visitors, 
being  ignorant,  were  still  gaping  expectantly ;  it  was 
up  to  Bill  Lightfoot  to  spring  the  mine.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated,  and  then  his  red-hot  impetuosity, 
which  had  often  got  him  into  trouble  before,  carried 
him  away. 

"W'y,  sure  it  would  be  deep  for  Coloraydo,"  he 
answered,  guardedly. 

Jefferson  Creede  glanced  up  at  him,  smoking 
luxuriously,  holding  the  cigarette  to  his  lips  with  his 
hand  as  if  concealing  a  smile. 

"Aw,  rats,"  snapped  out  Lightfoot  at  last,  "why 
don't  you  finish  up  and  quit?  What  happened  then?" 

"Then?"  drawled  Creede,  with  a  slow  smile.  "W'y, 
nothin',  Bill— I  died!" 

" Ah-hah-hah !"  yelled  the  punchers,  throwing  up 
handf uls  of  dirt  in  the  extravagance  of  their  delight, 
and  before  Bill  could  realize  the  enormity  of  the  sell 
one  of  his  own  partisans  rose  up  and  kicked  the 
cracker  box  out  from  under  him  in  token  of  utter 
defeat.  For  an  hour  after  their  precipitate  retreat 

[255] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  visitors  could  hear  the  whoops  and  gibes  of  the 
cowboys,  the  loud-mouthed  and  indignant  retorts  of 
Lightfoot,  and  the  soothing  remonstrances  of  Jeffer- 
son Creede — and  from  the  house  Kitty  the  irrepres- 
sible, added  to  their  merriment  a  shriek  of  silvery 
laughter.  But  after  it  was  all  over  and  he  had  won, 
the  round-up  boss  swore  soberly  at  himself  and 
sighed,  for  he  discerned  on  the  morrow's  horizon  the 
Indian  signs  of  trouble. 


[2561 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOREBODINGS 

the  Eastern  eye,  blinded  by  local  color,  the  Four 
Peaks  country  looked  like  a  large  and  pleasantly 
variegated  cactus  garden,  sparsely  populated  with  rol- 
licking, fun-loving  cowboys  who  wore  their  interest- 
ing six-shooters  solely  to  keep  their  balance  in  the 
saddle.  The  new  grass  stood  untrampled  beneath  the 
bushes  on  Bronco  Mesa,  there  were  buds  and  flowers 
everywhere,  and  the  wind  was  as  sweet  and  untainted 
as  if  it  drew  out  of  Eden.  But  somewhere,  somewhere 
in  that  great  wilderness  of  peaks  which  lay  to  the 
south  and  through  which  only  the  dogged  sheepmen 
could  fight  their  way,  stealthily  hidden,  yet  watching,, 
lay  Jasper  Swope  and  his  sheep.  And  not  only 
Jasper  with  his  pet  man-killing  Chihuahuano  and  all 
those  low-browed  compadres  whom  he  called  by  cir- 
cumlocution "brothers,"  but  Jim,  sore  with  his  defeat, 
and  many  others — and  every  man  armed. 

After  the  first  rain  they  had  disappeared  from 
the  desert  absolutely,  their  tracks  pointing  toward  the 
east.  The  drought  had  hit  them  hard,  and  the  cold  of 
Winter;  yet  the  ewes  had  lambed  in  the  springtime, 

17  [257] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  as  if  by  magic  the  tender  grass  shot  up  to  feed 
their  little  ones.  Surely,  God  was  good  to  the  sheep. 
They  were  ranging  far,  now  that  the  shearing  was 
over,  but  though  they  fed  to  the  topmost  peaks  of  the 
Superstitions,  driving  the  crooked-horned  mountain 
sheep  from  their  pastures,  their  destiny  lay  to  the 
north,  in  the  cool  valleys  of  the  Sierra  Blancas;  and 
there  in  the  end  they  would  go,  though  they  left  havoc 
in  their  wake.  Once  before  the  sheep  had  vanished 
in  this  same  way,  mysteriously ;  and  at  last,  travelling 
circuitous  ways  and  dealing  misery  to  many  Tonto 
cowmen,  they  had  poured  over  the  very  summit  of  the 
Four  Peaks  and  down  upon  Bronco  Mesa.  And 
now,  though  they  were  hidden,  every  man  on  the 
round-up  felt  their  presence  and  knew  that  the  upper 
range  was  in  jeopardy. 

After  amusing  the  ladies  with  inconsequential  tales, 
the  rodeo  outfit  therefore  rose  up  and  was  gone  before 
the  light,  raking  the  exposed  lowland  for  its  toll  of 
half -fed  steers;  and  even  Rufus  Hardy,  the  parlor- 
broke  friend  and  lover,  slipped  away  before  any  of 
them  were  stirring  and  rode  far  up  along  the  river. 
What  a  river  it  was  now,  this  unbridled  Salagua  which 
had  been  their  moat  and  rampart  for  so  many  years ! 
Its  waters  flowed  thin  and  impotent  over  the  rapids, 
lying  in  clear  pools  against  the  base  of  the  black  cliffs, 
and  the  current  that  had  uprooted  trees  like  feathers 

[2581 


FOREBODINGS 

was  turned  aside  by  a  snag.  Where  before  the  sheep 
had  hung  upon  its  flank  hoping  at  last  to  swim  at 
Hidden  Water,  the  old  ewes  now  strayed  along  its 
sandy  bed,  browsing  upon  the  willows.  From  the 
towering  black  buttes  that  walled  in  Hell's  Hip 
Pocket  to  the  Rio  Verde  it  was  passable  for  a  spring 
lamb,  and  though  the  thin  grass  stood  up  fresh  and 
green  on  the  mesas  the  river  showed  nothing  but 
drought.  Drought  and  the  sheep,  those  were  the  twin 
evils  of  the  Four  Peaks  country;  they  lowered  the 
price  of  cattle  and  set  men  to  riding  the  range  rest- 
lessly. For  the  drought  is  a  visitation  of  God,  to  be 
accepted  and  endured,  but  sheep  may  be  turned  back. 
As  he  rode  rapidly  along  the  river  trail,  halting  on 
each  ridge  to  search  the  landscape  for  sheep,  Hardy's 
conscience  smote  him  for  the  single  day  he  had  spent 
in  camp,  dallying  within  sight  of  Kitty  or  talking  with 
Lucy  Ware.  One  such  day,  if  the  sheepmen  were 
prepared,  and  Bronco  Mesa  would  be  a  desert. 
Threats,  violence,  strategy,  would  be  of  no  avail,  once 
the  evil  was  done;  the  sheep  must  be  turned  back  at 
the  river  or  they  would  swarm  in  upon  the  whole 
upper  range.  One  man  could  turn  them  there,  for  it 
was  the  dead  line;  but  once  across  they  would  scat- 
ter like  quail  before  a  hawk,  crouching  and  hiding  in 
the  gulches,  refusing  to  move,  yet  creeping  with  brut- 
ish stubbornness  toward  the  north  and  leaving  a  clean 

[259] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

swath  behind.  There  were  four  passes  that  cut  their 
way  down  from  the  southern  mountains  to  the  banks 
of  the  river,  old  trails  of  Apaches  and  wild  game,  and 
to  quiet  his  mind  Hardy  looked  for  tracks  at  every 
crossing  before  he  turned  Chapuli's  head  toward 
camp. 

The  smoke  was  drifting  from  the  chimney  when, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  he  rode  past  the  door  and  saw 
Lucy  Ware  inside,  struggling  with  an  iron  kettle 
before  the  fireplace.  Poor  Lucy,  she  had  under- 
taken a  hard  problem,  for  there  is  as  much  difference 
between  camp  cooking  and  home  cooking  as  there 
is  between  a  Dutch  oven  and  a  steel  range,  and  a 
cooking-school  graduate  has  to  forget  a  whole  lot  be- 
fore she  can  catch  the  knack  of  the  open  fire.  For  the 
second  time  that  day  Rufus  Hardy's  conscience,  so 
lately  exercised  over  his  neglect  of  the  sheep,  rose 
up  and  rebuked  him.  Throwing  Chapuli  into  the 
corral  he  kicked  off  his  spurs  and  shaps  and  gave 
Lucy  her  first  lesson  in  frontier  cookery;  taught  her 
by  the  force  of  his  example  how  to  waste  her  wood 
and  save  her  back;  and  at  the  end  of  the  short  demon- 
stration he  sat  down  without  ceremony,  and  fell  to 
eating. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  seem  to  be  greedy,  but 
I  had  my  breakfast  before  sun-up.  Where  's  your 
father,  and  Kitty?" 

[260] 


FOREBODINGS 

"Oh,  they  had  the  Mexican  boy  catch  their  horses 
for  them  and  have  ridden  up  the  valley  to  watch  for 
the  cattle.  I  stayed  behind  to  make  my  first  water 
color,  and  then  —  I  thought  you  would  be  coming 
back  soon,  so  I  tried  to  cook  supper  instead.  I  'm 
a  pretty  good  housekeeper  —  at  home,"  she  said 
apologetically. 

Hardy  watched  her  as  she  experimented  pains- 
takingly with  the  fire,  scooping  out  shovelfuls  of  coal 
from  beneath  the  glowing  logs  and  planting  her  pots 
and  kettles  upon  them  with  a  hooked  stick,  according 
to  instructions. 

"You  look  like  a  picture  of  one  of  our  sainted 
Puritan  ancestors,"  he  observed,  at  last,  "and  that 's 
just  exactly  the  way  they  cooked,  too  —  over  an  open 
fire.  How  does  it  feel  to  be  Priscilla?" 

"Well,  if  Priscilla's  hands  looked  like  mine,"  ex- 
claimed Lucy  despairingly,  "John  Alden  must  have 
been  madly  in  love  with  her.  How  do  you  keep  yours 
clean?" 

"That 's  a  secret,"  replied  Hardy,  "but  I  '11  tell 
you.  I  never  touch  the  outside  of  a  pot  —  and  I 
scour  them  with  sandsoap.  But  I  wish  you  Jd  stop 
cooking,  Lucy;  it  makes  me  feel  conscience-stricken. 
You  are  my  guests,  remember,  even  if  I  do  go  off  and 
neglect  you  for  a  whole  day;  and  when  you  go  back  to 
Berkeley  I  want  you  to  have  something  more  interest- 

[261] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ing  than  housekeeping  to  talk  about.  Did  n't  I  see 
two  ladies'  saddles  out  in  the  wagon?" 

Miss  Lucy's  eyes  lighted  up  with  pleasure  as,  antic- 
ipating his  drift,  she  nodded  her  head. 

'"Well  then,"  said  Hardy,  with  fina|ity,  "if  you  '11 
get  up  early  in  the  morning,  I  '11  catch  you  a  little 
pony  that  I  gentled  myself,  and  we  can  ride  up  the 
-river  together.  How  does  that  strike  you  ?" 

"Tine!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  with  sudden  enthusiasm. 

*'Oh,  Rufus,"  she  cried  impulsively,  "if  you  only 
'inew  how  weak  and  helpless  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a 
woman  —  and  how  glad  we  are  to  be  noticed !  Why, 
I  was  just  thinking  before  you  came  in  that  about  the 
only  really  helpful  thing  a  woman  could  do  in  this 
world  was  just  to  stay  around  home  and  cook  the 
meals." 

*'Well,  you  just  let  me  cook'  those  meals  for  a 
while,"  said  Rufus,  with  brotherly  authority,  "and 
jeome  out  and  be  a  man  for  a  change.  Can  you  ride 
pretty  well?" 

Lucy  glanced  at  him  questioningly,  and  thought 
she  read  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  can  ride,  but  —  but  I  just 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  dress  like  Kitty!"  she  burst 
aoiiL  "I  know  it 's  foolish,  but  I  can't  bear  to  have 
people  notice  me  so.  But  I  'U  be  a  man  in  everything 
else,  if  you  '11  only  give  me  a  chance."  She  stood 

[2621 


FOREBODINGS 

before  him,  radiant,  eager,  her  eyes  sparkling  like  a 
child's,  and  suddenly  Hardy  realized  how  much  she 
lost  by  being  always  with  Kitty.  Seen  by  herself 
she  was  as  lithe  and  graceful  as  a  fairy,  with  a  steady 
gaze  very  rare  in  women,  and  eyes  which  changed  like 
the  shadows  in  a  pool,  answering  every  mood  in  wind 
and  sky,  yet  always  with  their  own  true  light.  Her 
cheeks  glowed  with  the  fresh  color  which  her  father's 
still  retained,  and  she  had  inherited  his  generous 
nature,  too;  but  in  mind  and  stature  she  took  after 
her  dainty  mother,  whose  exquisite  grace  and  beauty 
had  made  her  one  of  the  elect.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
quality  of  the  petite  in  her  which  appealed  to  him  — 
for  a  little  man  cannot  endure  to  be  laughed  at  for 
his  size,  even  in  secret  —  or  perhaps  it  was  only  the 
intuitive  response  to  a  something  which  in  his  pre- 
possession he  only  vaguely  sensed,  but  Rufus  Hardy 
felt  his  heart  go  out  to  her  in  a  moment  and  his  voice 
sank  once  more  to  the  caressing  fulness  which  she 
most  loved  to  hear. 

"Ah,  Lucy,"  he  said,  "you  need  never  try  to  be  a 
man  in  order  to  ride  with  me.  It  would  be  hard  luck 
if  a  woman  like  you  had  to  ask  twice  for  anything. 
Will  you  go  out  with  me  every  day?  No?  Then  I 
shall  ask  you  every  day,  and  you  shall  go  whenever 
you  please !  But  you  know  how  it  is.  The  sheepmen 
are  hiding  along  the  river  waiting  for  a  chance  to 

[263] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sneak  across,  and  if  I  should  stay  in  camp  for  a 
single  day  they  might  make  a  break  • —  and  then  we 
would  have  a  war.  Your  father  does  n't  understand 
that,  but  I  do;  and  I  know  that  Jeff  will  never  sub- 
mit to  being  sheeped  out  without  a  fight.  Can't  you 
see  how  it  is  ?  I  should  like  to  stay  here  and  entertain 
you,  and  yet  I  must  protect  your  father's  cattle,  and 
I  must  protect  Jeff.  But  if  you  will  ride  out  with 
me  when  it  is  not  too  hot,  I  —  it  —  well,  you  '11  go  to- 
morrow, won't  you?" 

He  rose  and  took  her  hand  impulsively,  and  then 
as  quickly  dropped  it  and  turned  away.  The 
muffled  chuck,  chuck,  of  a  horse's  feet  stepping  past 
the  door  smote  upon  his  ear,  and  a  moment  later  a 
clear  voice  hailed  them. 

"What  are  you  children  chattering  about  in 
there?"  cried  Kitty  Bonnair,  and  Hardy,  after  a 
guilty  silence,  replied: 

"The  ways  of  the  weary  world.  Won't  you  come 
in  and  have  the  last  word?" 

He  stepped  out  and  held  Pinto  by  the  head,  and 
Kitty  dropped  off  and  sank  wearily  into  a  rawhide 
chair. 

"Oh,  I  'm  too  tired  to  talk,  riding  around  trying 
to  find  those  cattle  —  and  just  as  I  was  tired  out  we 
saw  them  coming,  away  out  on  The  Rolls.  Lucy,  do 

[264] 


FOREBODINGS 

put  on  your  riding  habit  and  go  back  on  Pinto  —  you 
have  n't  been  out  of  the  house  to-day!" 

As  half  an  hour  later  Lucy  Ware  trotted 
obediently  away,  riding  up  the  canon  toward  the 
distant  bawling  of  cattle,  Kitty  turned  suddenly 
upon  Hardy  with  half -closed,  accusing  eyes. 

"You  seem  to  be  very  happy  with  Lucy,"  she  said, 
with  an  aggrieved  smile.  "But  why,"  she  continued, 
with  quickening  animus,  "why  should  you  seek  to 
avoid  me?  Is  n't  it  enough  that  I  should  come  clear 
down  here  to  see  you?  But  when  I  want  to  have  a 
word  with  you  after  our  long  silence  I  have  to  scheme 
and  manage  like  a  gypsy!" 

She  paused,  and  flicked  her  booted  leg  with  the 
lash  of  a  horsehair  quirt,  glancing  at  him  furtively 
with  eyes  that  drooped  with  an  appealing  sadness. 

"If  I  had  known  how  hard-hearted  you  could  be," 
she  said,  after  a  silence,  "I  should  never  have  spoken 
as  I  did,  if  the  words  choked  me.  But  now  that 
I  have  come  part  way  and  offered  my  poor  friendship 
again,  you  might  —  oh  Rufus,  how  could  you  be 
so  inconsiderate!  No  one  can  ever  know  what  I 
suffered  when  you  left  that  way.  Every  one  knew 
we  were  the  best  of  friends,  and  several  people  even 
knew  that  you  had  been  to  see  me.  And  then,  with- 
out a  word,  without  a  sign,  with  no  explanation,  to 

[265] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

leave   and   be   gone    for   years  —  think   what   they 
must  have  thought!     Oh,  it  was  too  humiliating!" 

She  paused  again,  and  to  Hardy's  apprehensive 
eyes  she  seemed  on  the  verge  of  tears.  So  he  spoke, 
blindly  and  without  consideration,  filled  with  a  man's 
anxiety  to  stave  off  this  final  catastrophe. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  he  began,  though  he  had  never 
meant  to  say  it,  "but  —  but  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do!  You  —  you  told  me  to  go.  You  said  you 
never  wanted  to  see  me  again,  and  —  you  were  not 
very  kind  to  me,  then."  He  paused,  and  at  the 
memory  of  those  last  words  of  hers,  uttered  long 
ago,  the  flush  of  shame  mantled  his  cheeks. 

"Every  man  has  his  limit,"  he  said  bluntly,  "and 
I  am  no  dog,  to  be  scolded  and  punished  and  sent 
away.  I  have  been  ashamed  many  times  for  what 
I  did,  but  I  had  to  keep  my  own  respect  —  and  so 
I  left.  Is  it  too  much  for  a  man  to  go  away  when 
he  is  told?" 

Kitty  Bonnair  fixed  him  with  her  dark  eyes  and 
shook  her  head  sadly. 

"Ah,  Rufus,"  she  sighed,  "when  will  you  ever 
learn  that  a  woman  does  not  always  mean  all  she 
says?  When  you  had  made  me  so  happy  by  your 
tender  consideration  —  for  you  could  be  considerate 
when  you  chose  —  I  said  that  I  loved  you;  and  I 
did,  but  not  in  the  way  you  thought.  I  did  mean  it 

[266] 


FOREBODINGS 

at  the  moment,  from  my  heart,  but  not  for  lif ie  —  ft 
was  no  surrender,  no  promise  —  I  just  loved  you  for 
being  so  good  and  kind.  But  when,  taking  advan- 
tage of  what  I  said  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  yon 
tried  to  claim  that  which  I  had  never  given,  I  —  I 
said  more  than  I  meant  again,  Don't  you  under- 
stand? I  was  hurt,  and  disappointed,  and  I  spoke 
i  without  thinking,  but  you  must  not  hold  that  against 
me  forever!  And  after  I  have  come  clear  down  here 
• —  to  avoid  me  —  to  always  go  out  with  Lucy  and 
leave  me  alone  —  to  force  me  to  arrange  a  meet- 
ing-" 

She  stopped,  and  Hardy  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
seat.  In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  realized  from  the 
first  his  inequality  in  this  losing  battle.  He  was: 
like  a  man  who  goes  into  a  contest  conquered  already 
by  his  ineptitude  at  arms  —  and  Kitty  would  have 
her  way!  Never  but  once  had  he  defied  her  powerv 
and  that  had  been  more  a  flight  than  a  victory.  There 
was  fighting  blood  in  his  veins,  but  it  turned  to  water 
before  her.  He  despised  himself  for  it;  but  all  the 
while,  in  a  shifting,  browbeaten  way,  he  was  seeking" 
for  an  excuse  to  capitulate. 

"But,  Kitty,"  he  pleaded,  "be  reasonable.  I  have 
my  duties  down  here  —  the  sheep  are  trying  to  come 
in  on  us  —  I  have  to  patrol  the  river.  This  morn- 
ing before  you  were  awake  I  was  in  the  saddle,  ancF. 

[267] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

now  I  have  just  returned.  To-morrow  I  shall  be 
off  again,  so  how  can  I  arrange  a  meeting?" 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  her  appealingly,  carried 
A  way  by  the  force  of  his  own  logic. 

"You  might  at  least  invite  me  to  go  with  you,"  she 
said.  "Unless  you  expect  me  to  spend  all  my  time 
getting  lost  with  Judge  Ware,"  she  added,  with  a 
plaintive  break  in  her  voice. 

"Why,  yes  —  yes,"  began  Hardy  haltingly.  "I 
—  I  have  asked  Lucy  to  go  with  me  to-morrow, 
but—" 

"Oh,  thank  you  —  thank  you!"  burst  out  Kitty 
mockingly.  "But  what?" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  might  like  to  come  along 
too,"  suggested  Hardy  awkwardly. 

"What?  And  rob  her  of  all'her  pleasure?"  Kitty 
smiled  bitterly  as  she  turned  upon  him.  "Why, 
Uufus  Hardy,"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly,  "and  she 
just  dotes  on  every  word  you  say!  Yes,  she  does  — 
any  one  can  see  that  she  simply  adores  you.  I  de- 
clare, Rufus,  your  lack  of  perception  would  make  an 
^ngel  weep  —  especially  if  it  was  a  lady  angel. 
But  you  may  as  well  understand  once  and  for  all 
that  I  will  never  deprive  dear,  patient,  long-suffering 
Lucy  of  anything  she  sets  her  heart  on.  No,  I 
will  not  go  with  you  the  next  day.  If  you  have  n't 
consideration  enough  to  invite  me  first,  I  have  sense 

[268] 


FOREBODINGS 

enough  to  stay  away.  It  was  only  yesterday  that 
you  took  Lucy  up  to  Hidden  Water,  and  to-day  I 
find  you  with  her  again;  and  to-morrow  —  well,  I 
perceive  that  I  must  amuse  myself  down  here.  But 
—  oh,  look,  look !  There  's  a  cowboy  —  up  on  that 
high  cliff!" 

She  started  up,  pointing  at  a  horseman  who  was 
spurring  furiously  along  the  side  of  the  canon  after 
a  runaway  steer. 

"Oh,  look!"  she  cried  again,  as  Hardy  surveyed  him 
indifferently.  "He  is  whirling  his  lasso.  Oh!  He 
has  thrown  it  over  that  big  cow's  horns!  Goodness 
me,  where  is  my  horse?  No,  I  am  going  on  foot, 
then!  Oh,  Lucy  —  Lucy  dear,"  she  screamed,  wav- 
ing her  hand  wildly,  "do  let  me  have  Pinto,  just  for 
a  moment!  All  right  —  and  Lucy  —  wasn't  that 
Mr.  Creede?"  She  lingered  on  the  ground  long 
enough  to  give  her  an  ecstatic  kiss  and  then  swung 
up  into  the  saddle.  "Yes,  I  knew  it  —  and  is  n't  he 
just  perfectly  grand  on  that  big  horse?  Oh,  I've 
been  wanting  to  see  this  all  my  life  —  and  I  owe  it 
all  to  you!" 

With  a  smile  and  a  gay  salutation,  she  leaned 
forward  and  galloped  out  into  the  riot  and  confusion 
of  the  rodeo,  skirting  the  edge  of  the  bellowing  herd 
until  she  disappeared  in  the  dust.  And  somehow, 
even  by  the  childlike  obliviousness  with  which  she 

[269] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

scampered  away,  she  managed  to  convey  a  pang  to 
her  errant  lover  which  clutched  at  his  heart  for  days. 

And  what  days  those  were  for  Jefferson  Creedel 
Deep  and  devious  as  was  his  knowledge  of  men  in  the 
rough,  the  ways  of  a  woman  in  love  were  as  cryptic 
to  him  as  the  poems  of  Browning.  The  first  day 
that  Miss  Kitty  rode  forth  to  be  a  cowboy  it  was  the 
rodeo  boss,  indulgent,  but  aware  of  the  tenderfoot's 
ability  to  make  trouble,  who  soberly  assigned  his  fair 
disciple  to  guard  a  pass  over  which  no  cow  could 
possibly  come.  And  Kitty,  sensing  the  deceit,  had  as 
soberly  amused  herself  by  gathering  flowers  among 
the  rocks.  But  the  next  day,  having  learned  her 
first  lesson,  she  struck  for  a  job  to  ride,  and  it  was 
the  giddy-headed  lover  who  permitted  her  to  accom- 
pany him  —  although  not  from  any  obvious  or  selfish 
motives. 

Miss  Bonnair  was  the  guest  of  the  ranch,  her  life 
and  welfare  being  placed  for  the  time  in  the  keeping 
of  the  boss.  What  kind  of  a  foreman  would  it  be 
who  would  turn  her  over  to  a  hireling  or  intrust  her 
innocent  mind  to  a  depraved  individual  like  Bill 
Lightfoot?  And  all  the  decent  cowmen  were  scared 
of  her,  so  who  was  naturally  indicated  and  elected  but 
JeffersonD.  Creede? 

There  wasn't  any  branding  at  the  round  corral 
that  night.  The  gather  was  a  fizzle,  for  some  reason, 

[270] 


FOREBODINGS 

though  Miss  Kitty  rode  Pinto  to  a  finish  and  killed 
a  rattlesnake  with  Creede's  own  gun.  Well,  they 
never  did  catch  many  cattle  the  first  few  days, —  after 
they  had  picked  up  the  tame  bunch  that  hung  around 
the  water, —  and  the  dry  weather  seemed  to  have 
driven  the  cows  in  from  The  Rolls.  But  when  they 
came  in  the  second  afternoon,  with  only  a  half  of 
their  gather,  Creede  rode  out  from  the  hold-up  herd 
to  meet  them,  looking  pretty  black. 

It  is  the  duty  of  a  rodeo  boss  to  know  what  is 
going  on,  if  he  has  to  ride  a  horse  to  death  to  find  out ; 
and  the  next  day,  after  sending  every  man  down  his 
ridge,  Jeff  left  Kitty  Bonnair  talking  lion  hunt 
with  old  Bill  Johnson  who  had  ridden  clear  over 
from  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  to  gaze  upon  this  horse- 
riding  Diana,  and  disappeared.  As  a  result,  Bat 
Wings  was  lathered  to  a  fine  dirt-color  and  there 
was  one  man  in  particular  that  the  boss  wanted  to 
see. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  riding  up  to  where  one  of  the  Clark 
boys  was  sullenly  lashing  the  drag  with  his  reata, 
"what  in  the  hell  do  you  mean  by  lettin'  all  them 
cattle  get  away?  Yes,  you  did  too.  I  saw  you  tryin* 
to  turn  'em  back,  so  don't  try  to  hand  me  anything 
like  that.  I  used  to  think  you  was  a  good  puncher, 
Jim,  but  a  man  that  can't  keep  a  herd  of  cows  from 
goin'  through  a  box  pass  ought  to  be  smokin'  cigar- 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ettes  on  the  day  herd.  You  bet  ye !  All  you  had  to 
do  was  be  there  —  and  that 's  jest  exactly  where  you 
was  n't !  I  was  up  on  top  of  that  rocky  butte,  and  I 
know.  You  was  half  a  mile  up  the  canon  mousin' 
around  in  them  cliffs,  that 's  where  you  was,  and  the 
only  question  I  want  to  ask  is,  Did  you  find  the  Lost 
Dutchman?  No?  Then  what  in  hell  was  you 
doin'?" 

The  rodeo  boss  crowded  his  horse  in  close  and 
thrust  his  face  forward  until  he  could  look  him 
squarely  in  the  eye,  and  Clark  jerked'  back  his  head 
resentfully. 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  he  demanded  belligerently. 

"Oh,  nawthin',"  returned  the  boss  lightly,  "jest 
wanted  to  know." 

"Uhr!"  grunted  the  cowboy  contemptuously. 
"Well,  I  was  killin'  snakes,  then!  What  ye  goin' 
to  do  about  it?" 

"Snakes!"  cried  Creede  incredulously.  "Killin' 
snakes!  Since  when  did  you  call  a  feud  on  them?" 

"Since  thet  young  lady  come,"  replied  Clark, 
glancing  around  to  see  if  any  one  had  the  nerve  to 
laugh.  "I  heerd  her  say  she  was  collect  in'  rattles; 
an'  I  thought,  while  I  was  waitin',  I  might  as  well 
rustle  up  a  few.  Oh,  you  don't  need  to  look  pop-eyed 
—  they 's  others!" 

He  rolled  his  eyes  significantly  at  the  group  of 

[272] 


FOREBODINGS 

assembled  cowboys,  and  Creede  took  it  all  in  at  a 
flash.  There  were  others  —  he  himself  had  a  set  of 
rattles  in  his  shap  pocket  that  were  not  two  hours 
from  the  stump.  The  situation  called  for  diplomacy. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  scratching  his  bushy  head  to 
cover  his  confusion,  "this  reflects  great  credit  on  your 
bringin'  up,  Jim,  and  I  'm  sure  Miss  Bonnair  will 
appreciate  what  you  've  done  for  her,  especially  as  I 
happened  to  notice  a  couple  o'  head  of  your  own  cows 
in  that  bunch,  but  it 's  a  mighty  expensive  way  to 
collect  snake-tails.  We  ain't  gittin'  the  cattle,  boys; 
that 's  the  size  of  it,  and  they  're  as  much  yours  as  they 
are  mine.  Now  I  suggest  that  we  run  these  few 
we  've  got  down  to  the  corral  and  brand  'em  quick  — 
and  then  the  whole  shootin'-match  goes  over  to  the 
big  white  cliff  and  rounds  up  every  rattlesnake  in  the 
rock  pile !  Is  it  a  go  ?" 

"Sure!"  yelled  the  bunch  impetuously,  and  as  they 
charged  down  upon  the  herd  Creede  quietly  fished 
out  his  snake-tail  and  dropped  it  in  the  dirt. 

If  he  lacked  a  virtue  he  could  feign  it,  anyhow  — 
but  there  was  no  doubt  about  it,  Miss  Kitty  was  put- 
ting his  rodeo  on  the  bum.  There  had  never  been  so 
many  men  to  feed  and  so  few  calves  to  brand  in  the 
history  of  Hidden  Water.  Even  old  Bill  Johnson  had 
got  the  fever  from  hearing  the  boys  talk  and  was  hang- 
ing around  the  fire.  But  then,  what  were  a  few  head 

!8  [273] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

of  cows  compared  to  —  well,  what  was  it,  anyway? 
The  only  man  who  could  stay  away  was  Ruf  e,  and  he 
was  in  good  company. 

Yet  Creede  was  not  satisfied  with  this  explana- 
tion. Miss  Kitty  was  always  asking  questions  about 
Ruf  e  —  they  had  known  each  other  well  in  Berkeley 
—  and  at  the  same  time  the  little  partner  with  whom 
he  had  been  so  friendly  never  came  around  any  more. 
He  was  always  very  polite,  and  she  called  him  by 
his  first  name  —  and  then  one  of  them  rode  up  the 
river  and  the  other  followed  the  round-up. 

The  night  after  the  big  snake-killing  Jefferson 
Creede  picked  up  his  blankets  and  moved  quietly 
back  to  the  ramada  with  Hardy. 

"Them  locoed  punchers  have  been  skinnin'  rattlers 
and  stretchin'  their  hides,"  he  said,  "until  the  camp 
stinks  like  a  buzzard  roost.  I  'm  due  to  have  some 
bad  dreams  to-night  anyhow,  on  the  strength  of  this 
snake-killin',  but  it  'd  give  me  the  jumpin'  jimjams 
if  I  had  to  sleep  next  to  them  remains.  Did  n't  git 
back  in  time  to  join  in,  did  ye?  Well,  no  great  loss. 
I  always  did  intend  to  clean  out  that  snake  hole 
over  'n  the  cliff,  and  the  boys  was  stoppin'  every  time 
they  heard  one  sing,  anyhow,  in  order  to  git  the  rattles 
for  Miss  Bonnair,  so  I  thought  we  might  as  well  git 
it  off  our  minds  before  somethin'  worse  turned  up. 
See  any  sheep  tracks?" 

[274] 


FOREBODINGS 

He  kicked  off  his  boots,  poked  his  six-shooter  under 
his  pillow,  and  settled  down  comfortably  for  the 
night. 

"Nary  one,  eh?"  he  repeated  musingly.  "Well, 
when  you  see  one  you  '11  see  a  million  —  that 's  been 
my  experience.  But  say,  Rufe,  why  don't  you  come 
and  ride  with  the  boys  once  in  a  while?  The  rodeo 
has  been  goin5  rotten  this  year  —  we  ain't  gittin' 
half  of  'em  —  and  you  'd  come  in  mighty  handy. 
Besides,  I  Ve  been  braggin'  you  up  to  Miss  Bon- 


nair." 


He  dropped  this  last  as  a  bait,  but  Hardy  did  not 
respond. 

"I  told  her  you  was  the  best  bronco-buster  in  the 
Four  Peaks  country,"  continued  Creede  deliberately, 
"and  that  you  could  drift  Chapuli  over  the  rocks 
like  a  sand  lizard;  but  I  'm  too  heavy  for  anything 
like  that  now,  and  Bill  Lightfoot  has  been  puttin' 
up  the  fancy  work,  so  far.  You  know  how  I  like 
Bill." 

Once  more  he  waited  for  an  answer,  but  Hardy 
was  wrestling  with  those  elementary  passions  which 
have  been  making  trouble  since  Helen  of  Troy  left 
home,  and  he  received  the  remark  in  silence. 

"I  '11  tell  you,  Rufe,"  said  Creede,  lowering  his 
voice  confidentially.  "Of  course  I  see  how  it  is  with 
you  and  Miss  Ware,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it;  but  things 

[275] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ain't  goin'  so  lovely  for  me.  It  ain't  my  fault  if 
Miss  Bonnair  happens  to  like  my  company,  but  Bill 
and  some  of  the  other  boys  have  got  their  backs  up 
over  it,  and  they  Ve  practically  gone  on  a  strike. 
Leastwise  we  ain't  gittin'  the  cattle,  and  God  knows 
the  range  won't  more  'n  carry  what 's  left.  I  Ve  got 
to  git  out  and  do  some  ridin',  and  at  the  same  time 
I  want  to  do  the  right  thing  by  Miss  Bonnair,  so  if 
you  could  jest  kindly  come  along  with  us  to-morrow 
I  '11  be  much  obliged." 

The  elemental  passions  —  man-love,  jealousy, 
the  lust  for  possession  —  are  ugly  things  at  best,  even 
when  locked  in  the  bosom  of  a  poet.  In  their  simplest 
terms  they  make  for  treachery  and  stealth;  but  when 
complicated  with  the  higher  call  of  friendship  and 
duty  they  gall  a  man  like  the  chains  of  Prometheus 
and  send  the  dragon-clawed  eagles  of  Jove  to  tear  at 
his  vitals.  Never  until  this  naive  confession  had 
Hardy  suspected  the  sanity  of  his  friend  nor  the  con- 
stancy of  Kitty  Bonnair.  That  she  was  capable  of 
such  an  adventure  he  had  never  dreamed  —  and  yet 
—  and  yet  —  where  was  there  a  more  masterful  man 
than  Jeff?  Anything  can  happen  in  love;  and  who 
was  there  more  capable  of  winning  a  romantic 
woman's  regard  than  good-natured,  impulsive,  domi- 
neering Jeff  ? 

The  thoughts  flashed  through  his  brain  with  the 

[276] 


FOREBODINGS 

rapidity  of  lightning,  and  only  his  instinct  of  reserve 
protected  him  from  his  blundering  tongue. 

"I  —  I  was — "  he  began,  and  stopped  short, 
The  idea  of  loyalty  had  ruled  his  mind  so  long  that 
it  had  become  a  habit,  ill  suited  to  the  cause  of  & 
jealous  lover;  and  Jeff  had  confided  to  him  as  a 
child  might  run  to  its  mother.  Should  a  man  take 
advantage  of  his  friend's  innocence  to  deprive  him  of 
that  for  which  they  both  strove?  Hardy  fought  the 
devil  away  and  spoke  again,  quietly. 

"I  was  going  up  the  river  to-morrow,  Jeff,"  he 
said.     "Seemed  to  me  I  saw  a  kind  of  smoke,  or  dust, 
over  south  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  this  afternoon  - 
and  we  can't  take  any  chances  now.     That  would 
take  all  day,  you  know." 

He  lay  still  after  that,  his  brain  whirling  with  con- 
tending emotions.  Each  evening  as  he  listened  to 
the  music  of  her  laughter  he  had  resolved  to  quit 
his  lonely  watch  and  snatch  from  life  the  pleasure  of 
a  single  day  with  Kitty,  such  days  as  they  used  to 
have  when  he  was  her  unacknowledged  lover  and  all 
the  world  was  young.  Then  he  could  always  please 
her.  He  could  bend  to  her  moods  like  a  willow, 
braving  the  storms  of  her  displeasure,  which  only 
drew  them  closer  in  the  end,  secure  in  the  hope  of 
her  ultimate  yielding.  But  now  the  two  barren? 
years  lay  between;  years  which  had  stiffened  his  jaw 

[277] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  left  him  rough  in  his  ways;  years  which  had 
wrought  some  change  in  her,  he  knew  not  what.  A 
single  day  might  solve  the  crux  —  nay,  it  might  bring 
the  great  happiness  of  which  he  dreamed.  But  each 
morning  as  he  woke  with  the  dawn  he  saw  that 
mighty  army  without  banners,  the  sheep,  marching 
upon  their  stronghold,  the  broad  mesa  which  fed  the 
last  of  Jeff's  cows,  and  Judge  Ware's,  and  Lucy's  - 
and  sprang  from  his  blankets.  And  when  the  sun 
rose  and  Kitty  came  forth  he  was  far  away.  But 
now  — 

He  was  awakened  from  his  dreams  by  the  voice  of 
Creede,  low,  vibrant,  full  of  brotherly  love. 

"Rufe,"  he  was  saying,  "Miss  Bonnair  has  told  me 
a  lot  about  you  —  a  lot  I  did  n't  know.  She  likes  you, 
Loy,  and  she  's  a  good  woman.  I  never  knowed  but 
one  like  her,  and  that  was  Sallie  Winship.  You 
must  n't  let  anything  that 's  happened  stand  between 
you.  Of  course  she  never  said  anything  —  never  said 
a  word  —  but  I'm  wise  that  way;  I  can  tell  by 
their  voice,  and  all  that.  You  want  to  let  them 
Sam'  sheep  go  for  a  day  or  two  and  git  this  thing 
patched  up." 

He  paused,  and  Hardy's  mind  whirled  backward, 
upsetting  his  fears,  unmaking  his  conclusions.  It 
was  Jeff  the  friend  who  spoke,  Jeff  the  peacemaker, 
who  had  stampeded  him  by  the  equivocation  of  his 

[278] 


FOREBODINGS 

words.  But  now  the  voice  broke  in  again,  apolo- 
getic, solicitous,  self-seeking. 

"Besides,  that  son-of-a-gun,  Bill  Lightfoot,  has 
been  tryin'  to  cut  me  out." 

God!  There  it  hit  him  hard.  Kitty,  the  immacu- 
late, the  exquisite,  the  friend  of  poets  and  artists,  the 
woman  he  had  loved  and  cherished  in  his  dreams  — 
striven  for  by  Jeff  and  Bill,  revelling  in  the  homage 
of  Mexicans  and  hard-drinking  round-up  hands, 
whose  natural  language  was  astench  with  unclean- 
liness.  It  was  like  beholding  a  dainty  flower  in  the 
grime  and  brutality  of  the  branding  pen. 

"I  'm  sorry,  Jeff,"  he  said,  in  a  far-away  voice. 
"I  —  I  'd  do  anything  I  could  for  you  —  but  I  'm 
afraid  of  those  sheep." 

He  dragged  miserably  through  the  remnant  of 
their  conversation  and  then  lay  staring  at  the  stars 
while  his  hulk  of  a  partner,  this  great  bear  who  in 
his  awkward  good  nature  had  trampled  upon  holy 
ground,  slept  peacefully  by  his  side.  The  Pleiades 
fled  away  before  Orion,  the  Scorpion  rose  up  in 
the  south  and  sank  again,  the  Morning  Star  blinked 
and  blazed  like  a  distant  fire,  such  as  shepherds 
kindle  upon  the  ridges,  and  still  Hardy  lay  in  his 
blankets,  fighting  with  himself.  The  great  blackness 
which  precedes  the  first  glow  of  dawn  found  him 
haggard  and  weary  of  the  struggle.  He  rose  and 

[279] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

threw  wood  on  the  coals  of  last  night's  fire,  cooked 
and  ate  in  silence,  and  rode  away.  There  was  a 
great  burden  upon  his  soul,  a  great  fire  and  anger  in 
his  heart,  and  he  questioned  the  verities  of  life.  He 
rode  up  the  river  gloomily,  searching  the  southern 
wilderness  with  frowning,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  once 
more,  far  to  the  east  where  the  jagged  cliffs  of  the 
Superstitions  sweep  down  to  the  gorge  of  the  Sala- 
gua  and  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  bars  the  river's  sweep, 
he  saw  that  vague,  impalpable  haze  —  a  smoke,  a 
dust,  a  veil  of  the  lightest  skein,  stirred  idly  by  some 
wandering  wind,  perhaps,  or  marking  the  trail  of 
sheep.  And  as  he  looked  upon  it  his  melancholy 
gaze  changed  to  a  staring,  hawklike  intentness;  he 
leaned  forward  in  the  saddle  and  Chapuli  stepped 
eagerly  down  the  slope,  head  up,  as  if  he  sniffed  the 
battle. 


[280] 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   CATASTROPHE 

A  DEMON  of  unrest,  twin  devil  to  that  which 
had  so  clutched  and  torn  at  the  sensitive  spirit 
of  Rufus  Hardy,  seemed  to  rise  up  with  the  dawn 
of  that  ill-omened  day  and  seize  upon  the  camp  at 
Hidden  Water.  It  was  like  a  touch  of  the  north 
wind,  which  rumples  the  cat's  back,  sets  the  horses 
to  fighting  in  the  corrals,  and  makes  men  mean  and 
generally  contrary.  Bill  Johnson's  hounds  were  the 
first  to  feel  the  madness.  They  left  before  sun-up, 
heading  for  the  wooded  heights  of  the  Juate,  and 
led  him  a  weary  chase.  At  the  last  moment  Creede 
abandoned  the  unprofitable  working  of  The  Rolls 
and  ordered  the  rodeo  up  onto  Bronco  Mesa;  and 
Kitty  Bonnair,  taking  advantage  of  his  preoccupa- 
tion, quietly  gave  him  the  slip  at  the  end  of  their 
long  eastern  detour,  and  turned  her  pinto's  head 
toward  the  river. 

As  for  Kitty,  her  will  was  the  wind's  will,  which 
changes  with  the  times  and  seasons  but  is  accountable 
to  no  universal  law.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  met 
a  man  who  could  quarrel  like  Rufus  Hardy.  Be- 

[281] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

neath  her  eye  he  was  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the 
potter;  every  glance  spoke  love,  and  for  her  alone. 
And  yet  it  was  something  more  than  a  smouldering 
resentment  which  made  him  avoid  her,  riding 
out  before  the  dawn;  more  than  the  tremulous 
bashfulness  which  had  stayed  his  hand  when  at  times 
he  might  have  taken  hers.  There  was  something 
deep,  hidden,  mysterious,  lurking  in  those  fawnlike 
eyes,  and  it  made  him  insurgent  against  her  will. 
It  was  a  secret,  hidden  from  all  the  world,  which  he 
must  yield  to  her.  And  then  she  would  forgive  him 
for  all  the  unhappiness  he  had  caused  her  and  teach 
him  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  woman  to  love  and  be 
misunderstood.  But  first  —  first  she  must  see  him 
alone;  she  must  burst  upon  him  suddenly,  taking 
his  heart  by  storm  as  she  had  on  that  first  day,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  fate.  So  she  lingered  to  gather 
some  flowers  which  nodded  among  the  rocks,  the 
shy  and  dainty  forget-me-nots  which  they  had  picked 
together  at  home;  and  when  Creede  was  over  the 
first  ridge  she  struck  out  boldly  up  a  side  canon, 
tucking  the  miniature  bouquet  into  the  shadows  of 
her  hair. 

The  southern  flank  of  Bronco  Mesa  breaks  off 
sharply  above  the  Salagua,  rising  slowly  by  slopes 
and  terraced  benches  to  the  heights,  and  giving  way 
before  the  river  in  a  succession  of  broken  ridges. 

[282] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

Along  these  summits  run  winding  trails,  led  higH 
to  escape  the  rougher  ground.  Urged  on  by  the 
slashings  of  her  quirt,  Pinto  galloped  recklessly 
through  this  maze  of  cow  paths  until  as  if  by  magic 
the  great  valley  lay  before  them.  There  in  its  deep 
canon  was  the  river  and  the  river  trail  —  and  a  man, 
mounted  upon  a  sorrel  horse,  savagely  intent  upon 
his  way.  For  a  minute  Kitty  studied  him  curiously 
as  he  hustled  along,  favoring  his  horse  up  the  hills 
but  swinging  to  the  stirrup  as  he  dodged  bushes 
across  the  flats;  then  she  flung  out  her  hand  impul- 
sively, and  called  his  name.  In  a  flash  he  was  up 
in  his  saddle,  looking.  Chapuli  tossed  his  head  and 
in  the  act  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  other  horse  —  then 
they  both  stood  rigid,  gazing  in  astonishment  at  the 
living  statue  against  the  sky.  At  sight  of  that  witch* 
ing  figure,  beckoning  him  from  the  mountain  top, 
Hardy's  heart  leaped  within  him  and  stopped.  Once 
more  the  little  hand  was  thrown  out  against  the  sky 
and  a  merry  voice  floated  down  to  him  from  the  sun- 
touched  heights. 

"Hello,  Rufus!"  it  called  teasingly,  and  still  he  sat 
gazing  up  at  her.  All  the  untamed  passions  of  his 
being  surged  up  and  choked  his  voice  —  he  could  not 
answer.  His  head  turned  and  he  gazed  furtively 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  east,  where  his  duty  lay,. 
Then  of  his  own  accord  Chapuli  stepped  from  the 

[283] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Irail  and  began  to  picK  his  way  soberly  up  the 


IFrom  the  high  summit  of  the  butte  all  the  world  lay 

^spread  out  like  a  panorama,  —  the  slopes  and  canons 

t.of  Bronco  Mesa,  picketed  with  giant  sdhuaros;  the 

/silvery  .course  of  the  river  flowing  below;  the  unpeo- 

pled peaks  and  cliffs  of  the  Superstitions  ;  and  a  faint 

haze-like  zephyr,  floating  upon  the  eastern  horizon. 

And  there  at  last  the  eyes  of  Rufus  Hardy  and 

Etty  Bonnair  met,  questioning  each  other,  and  the 

w>rH  below  them  took  on  a  soft,  dreamy  veil  of 

Beauty. 

""Why,  how  did  you  come  here?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing down  upon  her  wonderingly.  "Were  you 
lost?" 

And  Kitty  smiled  wistfully  as  she  answered: 

"Yes  —  till  I  found  you." 

"Oh!"  said  Hardy,  and  he  studied  Her  face  warily, 
as  if  doubtful  of  her  intent. 

"But  how  could  you  be  lost,"  he  asked  again,  "and 
travel  so  far?  This  is  a  rough  country,  and  you 
,got  here  before  I  did." 

He  swung  down  from  his  horse  and  stood  beside 

ier,  but  Kitty  only  laughed  mischievously  and  shook 

iier  head  —  at  which,  by  some   lover's   magic,   the 

dainty  forget-me-nots  fell  from  her  hair  in  a  shower 

f  snowy  blossoms. 

[284] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

"I  was  lost,"  she  reiterated,  smiling  into  his  eyes, 
and  in  her  gaze  Hardy  could  read  — "without  you." 

For  a  moment  the  stern  sorrow  of  the  night  with- 
held him.  His  eyes  narrowed,  and  he  opened  his 
lips  to  speak.  Then,  bowing  his  head,  he  knelt  and 
gathered  up  the  flowers. 

"Yes,"  he  said  gently,  "I  understand.  I  — I 
have  been  lost,  too." 

They  smiled  and  sat  down  together  in  the  shadow 
of  a  great  rock,  gazing  out  over  the  peaks  and  pin- 
nacles of  the  mountains  which  wall  in  Hidden 
Water  and  talking  placidly  of  the  old  days- 
until  at  last,  when  the  spell  of  the  past  was  on 
him,  Kitty  fell  silent,  waiting  for  him  to  speak 
his  heart. 

But  instantly  the  spell  of  her  laughter  was  broken 
an  uneasy  thought  came  upon  Hardy,  and  he 
glanced  up  at  the  soaring  sun. 

"Jeff  will  be  worried  about  you,"  he  said  at  last. 
"He  will  think  you  are  lost  and  give  up  the  rodeo  to 
hunt  for  you.  We  must  not  stay  here  so  long." 

He  turned  his  head  instinctively  as  he  spoke,  and 
Kitty  knew  he  was  thinking  of  the  sheep. 

"Cattle  and  sheep  —  cattle  and  sheep,"  she  re- 
peated slowly.  "Is  there  nothing  else  that  counts, 
Rufus,  in  all  this  broad  land?  Must  friendship, 
love,  companionship,  all  go  down  before  cattle  and 

[285] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sheep?  I  never  knew  before  what  a  poor  creature 
a  woman  was  until  I  came  to  Arizona." 

She  glanced  at  him  from  beneath  her  drooping 
lashes,  and  saw  his  jaws  set  tense. 

"And  yet  only  yesterday,"  he  said,  with  a  sombre 
smile,  "you  had  twenty  men  risking  their  lives  to  give 
you  some  snake-tails  for  playthings." 

"But  my  old  friend  Rufus  was  not  among  them," 
rejoined  Kitty  quietly;  and  once  more  she  watched 
the  venom  working  in  his  blood. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "he  refuses  to  compete  with  Bill 
Lightfoot  at  any  price." 

"Oh,  Rufus,"  cried  Kitty,  turning  upon  him 
angrily,  "aren't  you  ashamed?  I  want  you  to  stop 
being  jealous  of  all  my  friends.  It  is  the  meanest 
and  most  contemptible  thing  a  man  can  do.  I  —  I 
won't  stand  it !" 

He  glanced  at  her  again  with  the  same  set  look  of 
disapproval  still  upon  his  face. 

"Kitty,"  he  said,  "if  you  knew  what  lives  some 
of  those  men  lead  —  the  thoughts  they  think,  the  lan- 
guage they  speak  —  you  —  you  would  not  -  He 
stopped,  for  the  sudden  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 
Kitty  was  crying. 

"Oh,  Rufus,"  she  sobbed,  "if  —  if  you  only  knew! 
Who  else  could  I  go  with  —  how  —  how  else  —  Oh, 
I  cannot  bear  to  be  scolded  and  —  I  only  did  it  to 

[286] 


No!  "  said  Kitty,  "you  do  not  love  me" 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

make  you  jealous!"  She  bowed  her  head  against 
her  knees  and  Hardy  gazed  at  her  in  awe,  shame 
and  compassion  sweeping  over  him  as  he  realized 
what  she  had  done. 

"Kitty  —  dear,"  he  stammered,  striving  to  unlock 
the  twisted  fingers,  "I--I  didn't  understand. 
Look,  here  are  your  flowers  and  —  I  love  you,  Kitty, 
if  I  am  a  brute."  He  took  one  hand  and  held  it, 
stroking  the  little  fingers  which  he  had  so  often  longed 
to  caress.  But  with  a  sudden  wilfulness  she  turned 
her  face  away. 

"Don't  you  love  me,  Kitty?"  he  pleaded. 
"Couldn't  you,  if  I  should  try  to  be  good  and  kind? 
I  —  I  don't  understand  women  —  I  know  I  have 
hurt  you  —  but  I  loved  you  all  the  time.  Can't 
you  forgive  me,  Kitty?" 

But  Kitty  only  shook  her  head.  "The  man  I  love 
must  be  my  master,"  she  said,  in  a  far-away  voice, 
not  looking  at  him.  "He  must  value  me  above  all 
the  world." 

"But,  Kitty,"  protested  Hardy,  "I  do  — " 

"No,"  said  Kitty,  "you  do  not  love  me." 

There  was  a  lash  to  the  words  that  cut  him  —  a 
scorn  half -spoken,  half-expressed  by  the  slant  of  her 
eye.  As  he  hesitated  he  felt  the  hot  blood  burn 
at  his  brow. 

"Rufus,"  she  cried,  turning  upon  him  quickly,  fedo 

[2371 


HIDDEN    WATER 

you  love  me?  Then  take  me  in  your  arms  and  kiss 
me!"  She  spoke  the  words  fiercely,  almost  as  a 
command,  and  Hardy  started  back  as  if  he  had  been 
shot. 

"Take  me  in  your  arms  and  kiss  me!"  sHe  re- 
peated evenly,  a  flash  of  scorn  in  her  eyes.  But  the 
man  who  had  said  he  loved  her  faltered  and  looked 
away. 

"Kitty,"  he  said  gently,  "you  know  I  love  you. 
But  — " 

"But  what?"  she  demanded  sharply. 

"I  —  I  have  never  — " 

"Well,"  said  Kitty  briefly,  "it's  all  over  — you 
don't  have  to!  I  just  wanted  to  show  you — "  She 
paused,  and  her  lip  curled  as  she  gazed  at  him  from 
a  distance.  "Look  at  my  horse,"  she  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, pointing  to  where  Pinto  was  pawing  and  jerk- 
ing at  his  bridle  rein.  When  Hardy  leapt  up  to 
free  his  foot  she  frowned  again,  for  that  is  not  the 
way  of  lovers. 

He  came  back  slowly,  leading  the  horse,  his  face 
very  pale,  his  eyes  set. 

"You  were  right,"  he  said.     "Shall  we  go ?" 

There  was  no  apology  in  his  voice,  no  appeal.  It 
had  grown  suddenly  firm  and  resonant,  and  he  fixed 
her  with  his  great  honest  eyes  steadfastly.  Some- 
thing in  the  man  seemed  to  rise  up  suddenly  and 

[288] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

rebuke  her  —  nay,  to  declare  her  unworthy  of  him. 
The  thought  of  those  two  years  —  two  years  without 
a  word  —  came  upon  Kitty  and  left  her  sober,  filled 
with  misgivings  for  the  future.  She  cast  about  for 
some  excuse,  some  reason  for  delay,  and  still  those 
masterful  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  —  sad,  wistful, 
yet  steadfast ;  and  like  a  child  she  obeyed  them. 

It  was  a  long  ride  to  camp,  long  for  both  of 
them.  When  he  had  turned  her  horse  into  the  corral 
Hardy  wheeled  and  rode  off  up  the  canon,  where 
the  hold-up  herd  was  bellowing  and  there  was  a  man's 
work  to  do.  There  was  wild  riding  that  day,  such 
as  Judge  Ware  and  Lucy  had  never  seen  before, 
and  more  than  one  outlaw,  loping  for  the  hills,  was 
roped  and  thrown,  and  then  lashed  back  to  his  place 
in  the  herd.  The  sensitive  spirit  of  Chapuli  re- 
sponded like  a  twin  being  to  the  sudden  madness 
of  his  master,  and  the  lagging  rodeo  hands  were 
galvanized  into  action  by  his  impetuous  ardor.  And 
at  the  end,  when  the  roping  and  branding  were  over, 
Hardy  rode  down  to  the  pasture  for  a  fresh  mount, 
his  eyes  still  burning  with  a  feverish  light  and  his  lips 
close-drawn  and  silent. 

The  outfit  was  huddled  about  the  fire  eating 
greedily  after  the  long  day,  when  Creede,  furtively 
watching  his  partner,  saw  his  eyes  fixed  curiously 
upon  some  object  in  the  outer  darkness.  He  fol- 

19  [289] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

lowed  the  glance  and  beheld  a  hound  —  gaunt,  lame, 
beseeching  —  limping  about  among  the  mesquite 
trees  which  lined  the  edge  of  the  flat. 

"There  's  one  of  Bill's  dogs,"  he  remarked  sociably, 
speaking  to  the  crowd  in  general.  "Must  Ve  got 
sore-footed  and  come  back.  Here,  Rock!  Here, 
Rye!  Here,  Ring!"  he  called,  trying  the  most  likely 
names.  "Here,  puppy  —  come  on,  boy!"  And  he 
scraped  a  plate  in  that  inviting  way  which  is  sup- 
posed to  suggest  feed  to  a  dog.  But  Hardy  rose  up 
quietly  from  his  place  and  went  out  to  the  dog.  A 
moment  later  he  called  to  Jeff  and,  after  a  hurried 
conference,  the  two  of  them  brought  the  wanderer 
up  to  the  fire. 

"Hey!"  called  Bill  Lightfoot,  "that  ain't  one  of 
Bill's  pack  —  that 's  old  Turco,  his  home  dog." 

"Don't  you  think  I  know  Bill's  dogs  yet?"  in- 
quired Creede  scathingly.  "Now  if  you  '11  jest  kindly 
keep  your  face  shet  a  minute,  I  '11  see  what 's  the 
matter  with  this  leg." 

He  clamped  Turco  between  his  knees  and  picked 
up  his  fore  leg,  while  the  old  dog  whined  and  licked 
his  hands  anxiously.  There  was  a  stain  of  blood 
from  the  shoulder  down,  and  above  it,  cut  neatly 
through  the  muscles,  a  gaping  wound. 

"That  was  a  thirty-thirty,"  said  Creede  grimly, 
and  every  man  looked  up.  Thirty-thirty  was  a  sin- 

[290] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

ister  number  on  the  range  —  it  was  the  calibre  of  a 
sheep-herder's  carbine. 

"Aw,  go  on,"  scoffed  Bill  Lightfoot,  rushing  over 
to  examine  the  wound.  "Who  could  have  shot  him 
—  away  over  in  Hell's  Hip  Pocket?" 

"Um  —  that 's  it,"  observed  Creede  significantly. 
"What  you  goin'  to  do,  Rufe?" 

"I  'm  going  over  there,"  answered  Hardy,  throw- 
ing the  saddle  on  his  horse.  He  looked  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  heaved  on  the  cinch.  "That 's  where 
that  dust  was,"  he  said,  and  as  the  outfit  stood  gaping 
he  swung  up  and  was  off  into  the  darkness. 

"Hey,  take  my  gun!"  yelled  Jeff,  but  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  never  faltered  —  he  was  going  it  blind  and 
unarmed.  Late  that  night  another  horseman  on  a 
flea-bitten  gray  dashed  madly  after  him  over  the 
Pocket  trail.  It  was  Old  Bill  Johnson,  crazed  with 
apprehension;  and  behind  him  straggled  his  hounds, 
worn  from  their  long  chase  after  the  lion,  but  fol- 
lowing dutifully  on  their  master's  scent.  The  rest 
of  the  outfit  rode  over  in  the  morning  —  the  punch- 
ers with  their  pistols  thrust  into  the  legs  of  their 
shaps;  Creede  black  and  staring  with  anger;  the 
judge  asking  a  thousand  unanswered  questions  and 
protesting  against  any  resort  to  violence;  the  women 
tagging  along  helplessly,  simply  because  they  could 
not  be  left  alone.  And  there,  pouring  forth  from 

[291] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  mouth  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket,  came  the  sheep,  a 
solid  phalanx,  urged  on  by  plunging  herders  and 
spreading  out  over  the  broad  mesa  like  an  invading 
army.  Upon  the  peaks  and  ridges  round  about 
stood  groups  of  men,  like  skirmishers?. —  camp 
rustlers  with  their  packs  and  burros;  herders,  whose 
sheep  had  already  passed  through  —  every  man  with 
his  gun  in  his  hand.  The  solid  earth  of  the  trail  was 
worn  down  and  stamped  to  dust  beneath  the  myriad 
feet,  rising  in  a  cloud  above  them  as  they  scrambled 
through  the  pass;  and  above  all  other  sounds  there 
rose  the  high,  sustained  tremolo  of  the  sheep: 

"Blay-ay-ay-ay!  Blay-ay-ay-ay!  Blay-ay-ay-ay!" 
To  the  ears  of  the  herders  it  was  music,  like  the 
thunder  of  stamps  to  a  miner  or  the  rumble  of  a 
waterfall  to  a  lonely  fisher;  the  old,  unlistened  music 
of  their  calling,  above  which  the  clamor  of  the  world 
must  fight  its  way.  But  to  the  cowmen  it  was  like  all 
hell  broken  loose,  a  confusion,  a  madness,  a  babel 
which  roused  every  passion  in  their  being  and  filled 
them  with  a  lust  to  kill. 

Without  looking  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  Jeffer- 
son Creede  fixed  his  eyes  upon  one  man  in  that  riot 
of  workers  and  rode  for  him  as  a  corral  hand  marks 
down  a  steer.  It  was  Jasper  Swope,  hustling  the 
last  of  a  herd  through  the  narrow  defile,  and  as  his 
Chihuahuanos  caught  sight  of  the  burly  figure  bear- 

[292] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

ing  down  upon  the  padron  they  abandoned  their 
work  to  help  him.  From  the  hill  above,  Jim  Swope, 
his  face  set  like  iron  for  the  conflict,  rode  in  to  back 
up  his  brother;  and  from  far  down  the  canon  Rufus 
Hardy  came  spurring  like  the  wind  to  take  his  place 
by  Creede. 

In  the  elemental  clangor  of  the  sheep  they  faced 
each  other,  Creede  towering  on  his  horse,  his  face 
furious  with  rage;  Swope  gray  with  the  dust  of  his 
driving  but  undaunted  by  the  assault. 

"Stop  where  you  are!"  shouted  Swope,  holding 
out  a  warning  hand  as  the  cowman  showed  no  sign 
of  halting.  But  Creede  came  straight  on,  never 
flinching,  until  he  had  almost  ridden  him  down. 

"You  low-lived,  sheep-eatin'  hound,"  he  hissed, 
piling  in  the  wickedest  of  his  range  epithets,  "you 
and  me  have  had  it  comin'  fer  quite  a  while,  and  now 
I  Ve  got  you.  I  Ve  never  yet  seen  a  sheepman  that 
would  fight  in  the  open,  but  you  Ve  got  to  or  take 
that!"  He  leaned  over  suddenly  and  slapped  him 
with  his  open  hand,  laughing  recklessly  at  the  Mex- 
icans as  they  brandished  their  guns  and  shouted. 

"Quite  se,  cdbrones"  he  jeered,  sorting  out  the 
worst  of  his  fighting  Spanish  for  their  benefit,  "you 
are  all  gutter  pups  —  you  are  afraid  to  shoot!" 

"Here,"  rasped  out  Jim  Swope,  spurring  his  horse 
in  between  them,  "what  are  you  fellers  tryin'  to  do? 

[293] 


HIDDEN    SVATER 

Git  out  of  here,  umbre  —  go  on  now!  Never  mind, 
Jasp,  I  '11  do  the  talkin'.  You  go  on  away,  will  ye! 
Now  what 's  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Creede,  and 
what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Jasper  Swope  had  whirled  back  from  the  blow  as 
a  rattler  throws  his  coils.  His  gray  eyes  gleamed 
and  he  showed  all  his  broken  teeth  as  he  spat  back 
hate  and  defiance  at  Creede;  but  Jim  was  his  elder 
brother  and  had  bested  him  more  than  once  since 
the  days  of  their  boyish  quarrels.  Slowly  and 
grudgingly  he  made  way,  backing  sullenly  off  with 
his  Mexicans;  and  Jim  stood  alone,  opposing  his 
cold  resolution  to  the  white-hot  wrath  of  Creede. 

"You  can  turn  back  them  sheep  and  git  off  my 
range!"  yelled  Creede.  "Turn  'em  back,  I  say,  or 
I  '11  leave  my  mark  on  some  of  you!" 

"How  can  I  turn  'em  back?"  argued  Swope,  throw- 
ing out  his  hands.  "They  's  ninety  thousand  more 
behind  me,  and  all  headin'  through  this  pass." 

"You  know  very  well  that  this  is  a  put-up  job," 
retorted  Creede  hotly.  "You  sheepmen  have  been 
crawlin'  around  on  your  bellies  for  a  month  to  get 
a  chanst  to  sheep  us  out,  and  now  you  say  you  can't 
help  yourself!  You're  the  crookedest,  lyingest 
sheep-puller  in  the  bunch,  Jim  Swope.  You  'd  rob 
a  graveyard  and  show  up  for  prayers  the  next 
jnornin'.  I  can  lick  you,  you  big  Mormon-faced 


THE    CATASTROPHE 

stiff,  with  one  hand  tied  behind  me,   and  what 's 


more  — " 


"Here  now  —  here  no-ow  —  "  protested  Swope, 
holding  out  his  hand  for  peace,  "they  ain't  no  call 
for  no  such  talk.  Mebbe  you  can  lick  me,  and  mebbe 
you  can't,  but  it  won't  do  you  any  good  to  tr^.  My 
sheep  is  here,  and  here  they  '11  stay,  until  I  git  good 
and  ready  to  move  'em.  This  is  a  free  range  and  a 
free  country,  and  the  man  ain't  born  that  can  make 
me  stop." 

He  paused,  and  fixed  his  keen  eyes  upon  Creede, 
searching  him  to  the  heart;  and  before  that  cold,  re- 
morseless gaze  the  fighting  frenzy  in  his  brain  died 
away.  Meanwhile  Hardy  had  come  up  from  where 
he  had  been  turning  back  sheep,  and  as  he  rode  in 
Jeff  instinctively  made  way  for  him. 

"No,"  replied  Hardy,  fastening  his  stern  eyes  upon 
the  iron  visage  of  the  sheepman,  "not  if  the  lives  of 
a  thousand  cattle  and  the  last  possessions  of  a  dozen 
men  lay  in  your  way.  You  and  your  legal  rights! 
It  is  men  like  you  who  make  the  law  worse  than 
nothing  and  turn  honest  cowmen  into  criminals.  If 
there  is  anything  in  it  you  will  lie  to  the  assessor  or 
rob  a  poor  man's  cabin  with  the  best  of  them,  but 
when  it  comes  to  your  legal  right  to  sheep  us  out  you 
are  all  for  law  and  order.  Sure,  you  will  uphold 
the  statutes  with  your  life  1  Look  at  those  renegade 

[295] 


HIDDEN    WATEK 

Mexicans,  every  man  armed  by  you  with  a  rifle  and 
a  revolver!  Is  that  the  way  to  come  onto  another 
man's  range?  If  you  are  going  to  sheep  us  out,  you 
can  try  it  on;  but  for  God's  sake  cut  it  out  about 
your  sacred  rights !" 

He  rose  up  in  his  saddle,  haranguing  the  assembly 
as  he  spoke,  and  once  more  Jim  Swope  felt  his  cause 
being  weakened  by  the  attacks  of  this  vehement  little 
cowman. 

"Well,  what  kin  I  do  about  it?"  he  cried,  throwing 
out  his  hands  in  virtuous  appeal.  "My  sheep  has  got 
to  eat,  hain't  they?" 

"Sure,"  assented  Hardy,  "and  so  have  our  cattle. 
But  I  tell  you  what  you  can  do  —  you  can  go  out 
through  that  pass  yonder!" 

He  pointed  at  the  canon  down  which  the  sheep  had 
come  in  the  Fall,  the  great  middle  fork  which  led 
up  over  the  Four  Peaks;  but  the  sheepman's  only 
reply  was  a  snarl  of  refusal. 

"Not  if  I  know  myself,"  he  muttered  spitefully. 
"How  'd  do,  Judge !"  He  fixed  his  eyes  eagerly 
upon  Judge  Ware,  who  was  hastening  to  join  in 
the  struggle.  "You  're  just  the  man  I  want  to 
see,"  he  continued,  advancing  briskly  to  meet  him, 
"and  I  want  to  ask  you,  here  and  now  before  these 
witnesses,  Do  you  claim  any  right  to  the  exclusive  use 
of  this  land?" 

[296] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

"Why,  certainly  not,  certainly  not,"  answered  the 
judge  warmly,  "but  at  the  same  time  I  do  claim  an 
equity  which  rises  from  prior  and  undisputed  pos- 
session, and  which  has  always  and  ought  now  to  pro- 
tect my  range  from  any  outside  invasion." 

"Very  likely,  very  likely,"  remarked  Swope  dryly. 
"And  now,  Judge,  I  want  to  ask  you  another  ques- 
tion before  these  witnesses.  Did  you  or  did  you  not 
authorize  your  superintendent  and  foreman  to 
threaten  and  intimidate  my  men  and  me,  with  the 
idea  of  driving  us  off  this  public  land?" 

"I  did  not,"  replied  the  judge,  his  mind  suddenly 
filled  with  visions  of  criminal  proceedings.  "On  the 
contrary,  I  have  repeatedly  warned  them  against  any 
such  action." 

"At  the  same  time,"  echoed  Swope,  quick:  to  follow 
up  his  advantage,  "these  men,  who  are  your  agents 
and  employees,  have  systematically  moved  my  herd- 
ers off  this  range  by  armed  violence,  and  your  fore- 
man has  just  now  struck  my  brother,  besides 
threatening  to  kill  some  of  us  if  we  don't  turn  back. 
I  want  to  tell  you  right  now,  Mr.  Ware,  that  I  have 
consulted  the  best  lawyers  in  this  Territory  as  to 
my  rights  on  public  lands,  and  you  will  be  held  per- 
sonally responsible  for  any  acts  of  violence  on  the 
part  of  your  employees.  Now  I  want  to  ask  you 
one  more  question:  Do  you  deny  my  right  to  pass 

[297] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

through  this  range  on  my  way  to  the  Sierra  Blancas? 
You  don't  ?  Well  then,  call  off  these  men!" 

He  paused  and  jerked  his  thumb  toward  Creede 
and  Hardy,  grinning  evilly,  and  as  he  spoke  Creede 
crowded  forward,  his  brow  black  as  a  thunder  cloud. 

"I  don't  take  orders  from  nobody,"  he  cried  vehe- 
mently, "not  now,  and  never  will.  I  Ve  got  a  few 
hundred  head  of  cows  on  this  range  myself  and  I 
intend  to  protect  'em  if  I  have  to  kill  somebody. 
You  '11  have  to  git  another  foreman,  Judge, —  I  've 
quit." 

He  shot  a  glance  of  pitying  contempt  at  the  man 
who  had  so  stupidly  marred  their  fortunes,  then 
he  turned  and  fixed  his  burning  eyes  upon  his  arch- 
enemy. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  speaking  quietly  at  last,  "my 
father  had  ten  thousand  head  of  cattle  on  this  range 
before  you  sheepmen  came  —  and  that 's  all  I  've  got 
left.  If  you  think  you  can  sheep  me  out,  go  to  it !" 

He  turned  his  horse's  head  toward  Hidden  Water, 
never  looking  back  at  the  sheep;  and  the  cowmen 
fell  in  behind  him,  glad  of  an  excuse  to  retreat. 
What  were  a  bunch  of  cowboys,  armed  with  six- 
shooters,  to  half  a  hundred  sheepmen  armed  with 
repeating  rifles  and  automatic  revolvers?  No,  it  was 
better  to  let  the  sheep  come,  let  them  spread  out  and 
scatter,  and  then  jump  the  herders  at  night,  if  it  came 

[298] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

to  that.  But  what,  reasoned  the  cautious  ones,  were 
a  few  hundred  head  of  cows  anyhow,  in  a  losing  fight 
against  the  law  itself?  What  was  a  petty  revenge 
upon  some  low-browed  Mexican  to  the  years  of  im- 
prisonment in  Yuma  which  might  follow?  There 
were  some  among  that  little  band  of  cowmen  who 
yelled  for  action,  others  who  were  disgusted  enough 
to  quit,  and  others  yet  who  said  nothing,  riding 
by  themselves  or  exchanging  furtive  glances  with 
Creede.  The  Clark  boys,  Ben  Reavis,  and  Juan 
Ortega  —  these  were  the  men  whom  the  rodeo  boss 
knew  he  could  trust,  and  none  of  them  spoke  a  word* 
Worn  and  haggard  from  his  night's  riding,  Rufus 
Hardy  rode  along  with  Judge  Ware  and  the  ladies,, 
explaining  the  situation  to  them.  The  sheep  had 
come  in  from  the  far  east,  crossing  where  sheep  had 
never  crossed  before,  at  the  junction  of  Hell's  Hip 
Pocket  Creek  and  the  drought-shrunk  Salagua. 
They  had  poured  into  the  Pocket  in  solid  columns, 
sheeping  it  to  the  rocks,  and  had  taken  the  pass  before 
either  he  or  Bill  Johnson  could  get  to  it.  All  through 
'the  night  the  sheepmen  had  been  crowding  their 
flocks  through  the  defile  until  there  were  already 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  on  Bronco  Mesa,  with 
fifty  thousand  to  follow.  Bill  Johnson  had  shot  his 
way  through  the  jam  and  disappeared  into  the 
Pocket,  but  he  could  do  nothing  now  —  his  little 

[299] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

valley  was  ruined.  There  would  not  be  a  spear  of 
grass  left  for  his  cattle,  and  his  burros  had  already 
come  out  with  the  pack  animals  of  the  sheepmen.  No 
one  knew  what  had  happened  when  he  reached  his 
home,  but  the  Mexican  herders  seemed  to  be  badly 
scared,  and  Johnson  had  probably  tried  to  drive  them 
out  of  the  valley. 

All  this  Hardy  explained  in  a  perfectly  matter-of- 
fact  way,  free  from  apprehension  or  excitement;  he 
listened  in  respectful  silence  to  Judge  Ware's  pro- 
tests against  violence  and  threats  of  instant  departure ; 
and  even  humored  Kitty's  curiosity  by  admitting  that 
Mr.  Johnson,  who  was  apparently  out  of  his  head 
when  he  shot  the  sheep,  had  probably  taken  a  shot 
or  two  at  the  herders,  as  well.  But  Lucy  Ware  was 
not  deceived  by  his  repose;  she  saw  the  cold  light 
in  his  eyes,  the  careful  avoidance  of  any  allusion  to 
his  own  actions,  and  the  studied  concealment  of  his 
future  intent.  But  even  then  she  was  not  prepared 
when,  after  supper,  her  father  came  into  the  ranch 
house  and  told  her  that  Mr.  Hardy  had  just  resigned. 

"I  can't  imagine  why  he  should  leave  me  at  this 
time,"  exclaimed  the  judge,  mopping  the  sweat  from 
his  brow,  and  groaning  with  vexation,  "but  a  man 
who  will  desert  his  own  father  in  the  way  he  has 
done  is  capable  of  anything,  I  suppose.  Just  be- 
cause he  doesn't  approve  of  my  policies  in  regard 

[300] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

to  these  sheep  he  coolly  says  he  won't  embarrass  me 
further  by  staying  in  my  employ!  I  declare,  Lucy, 
I  'm  afraid  I  'm  going  to  lose  everything  I  have 
down  here  if  both  he  and  Creede  desert  me.  Don't 
you  think  you  could  persuade  Rufus  to  stay?  Go 
out  and  see  him  and  tell  him  I  will  consent  to  any- 
thing—  except  this  unlawful  harrying  of  the 
sheep." 

The  old  judge,  still  perspiring  with  excitement, 
sank  wearily  down  into  a  chair  and  Lucy  came  over 
and  sat  upon  his  knee. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "do  you  remember  that  you 
once  told  me  you  would  give  me  this  ranch  if  I 
wanted  it?  Well,  I  want  it  now,  and  perhaps  if  you 
give  it  to  me  Rufus  will  consent  to  stay." 

"But,  daughter  — "  protested  the  judge,  and  then 
he  sat  quiet,  pondering  upon  the  matter. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  tell 
me  one  thing  —  there  is  nothing  between  you  and 
Rufus,  is  there?" 

He  turned  her  face  so  that  he  could  look  into  her 
honest  eyes,  but  Lucy  twisted  her  head  away, 
blushing. 

"No,"  she  said  faintly.  "He  —  he  is  in  love  with 
Kitty." 

"With  Kitty!"  cried  Judge  Ware,  outraged  at  the 
idea.  "Why,  he  —  but  never  mind,  never  mind, 

[301] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

darling.  I  am  glad  at  least  that  it  is  not  with  you. 
We  must  be  going  home  soon  now,  anyway,  and  that 
will  break  off  this  —  er^  But  I  don't  remember 
having  seen  them  together  much!" 

"No,"  said  Lucy  demurely,  "he  has  been  very  dis- 
creet. But  you  haven't  answered  my  question, 
father.  Will  you  give  me  the  ranch  if  I  get  Rufus 
to  stay?  Oh,  you're  a  dear!  Now  you  just  leave 
everything  in  my  hands  and  see  what  a  good  business 
woman  I  am!" 

She  skipped  lightly  out  the  door  and  hurried  over 
to  where  Hardy  and  Jefferson  Creede  were  sitting 
under  a  tree,  talking  gravely  together.  They 
stopped  as  she  approached  and  Hardy  looked  up  a 
little  sullenly  from  where  he  sat.  Then  he  rose,  and 
took  off  his  hat. 

"May  I  have  a  few  words  with  you  on  a  matter 
of  business,  Rufus?"  she  asked,  with  her  friendliest 
smile.  "No,  don't  go,  Mr.  Creede;  you  are  inter- 
ested in  this,  too.  In  fact,"  she  added  mysteriously, 
"I  need  your  assistance." 

A  slow  smile  crept  into  the  rough  cowboy's  eyes 
as  he  sat  watching  her. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  inquired  guard- 
edly. 

"Well,"  answered  Lucy,  "the  situation  is  like  this 
—  and  I  'm  not  trying  to  rope  you  in  on  anything, 

[302] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

as  you  say,  so  you  needn't  look  suspicious.  My; 
father  has  become  so  discouraged  with  the  way  things 
are  going  that  he  has  given  the  entire  Dos  S  Ranch 
to  me  —  if  I  can  manage  it.  Now  I  know  'that  you 
both  have  quit  because  you  don't  approve  of  my 
father's  orders  about  the  sheep.  I  don't  know  what 
your  plans  are  but  I  want  to  get  a  new  superintend- 
ent, and  that 's  where  I  need  your  assistance,  Mr. 
Creede." 

She  paused  long  enough  to  bestow  a  confiding 
smile  upon  the  rodeo  boss,  and  then  hurried  on  to  ex- 
plain her  position. 

"Of  course  you  understand  how  it  is  with  father. 
He  has  been  a  judge,  and  it  would  n't  do  for  a  man 
in  his  position  to  break  the  laws.  But  I  want  you 
two  men  to  tell  me  before  you  go  just  what  you  think 
I  ought  to  do  to  save  my  cattle,  and  you  can  say  what- 
ever you  please.  Mr.  Creede,  if  you  were  a  woman 
and  owned  the  Dos  S  outfit,  what  would  you  do  about 
the  sheep?" 

For  a  minute  Creede  sat  silent,  surveying  the  little 
lady  from  beneath  his  shaggy  hair. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "I  think  I  'd  do  one 
of  two  things:  I  'd  either  marry  some  nice  kind 
man  whose  judgment  I  could  trust,  and  turn  the  job 
over  to  him," — he  glanced  sideways  at  Hardy  as  he 
spoke, — "or  I  'd  hire  some  real  mean,  plug-ugly 

[303] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

feller  to  wade  in  and  clean  'em  out.  Failin'  in  that, 
I  think  I  'd  turn  the  whole  outfit  over  to  Ruf  e  here 
and  go  away  and  fergit  about  it." 

He  added  these  last  words  with  a  frank  directness 
which  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  own  convictions  in  the 
matter,  and  Lucy  turned  an  inquiring  eye  upon 
Hardy.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  pounding  a  hole 
in  the  ground  with  a  rock,  and  Lucy  noted  for  the 
first  time  a  trace  of  silver  in  his  hair.  The  setting 
sun  cast  deep  shadows  in  the  set  lines  of  his  face 
and  when  he  finally  looked  up  his  eyes  were  blood- 
shot and  haggard. 

"There  's  no  use  in  talking  to  me  about  that  job," 
he  said  morosely.  "I  'y_e  got  tired  of  taking  orders 
from  a  man  that  does  n't  know  what  he  's  talking 
about,  and  I  want  to  use  my  own  judgment  for  a 
while.  We  won't  let  anything  happen  to  your  cattle, 
Miss  Lucy,  and  I  thank  you  very  much,  but  I  'm 
afraid  I  can't  do  it." 

He  stopped,  and  bowed  his  head,  hammering 
moodily  away  at  his  hole  in  the  rocky  ground. 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,  Miss  Ware,"  said  Creede, 
rising  to  his  feet  as  the  silence  became  oppressive. 
"Come  over  here,  Rufe,  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

They  stood  with  their  heads  together,  Jeff  tapping 
the  little  man  on  the  chest  with  every  word,  and  still 
there  was  the  same  dogged  resistance.  "Well,  come 

[304] 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

on  and  let 's  find  out,"  protested  Creede  at  last,  im- 
patiently dragging  him  back. 

"Miss  Ware,"  he  said  politely,  "what  do  you  ex- 
pect of  this  here  supe ?  I  might  want  that  job  myself, 
later  on,"  he  observed  importantly. 

Lucy  smiled  at  the  bare-faced  fraud  and  hastened 
to  abet  it. 

"I  expect  him  to  look:  after  my  cattle,"  she  re- 
sponded promptly,  "and  to  protect  my  best  interests 
according  to  his  own  judgment.  The  only  thing  I 
insist  upon  is  that  he  leave  his  gun  at  home." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Creede  briefly.  "And  I  needed 
the  job,  too,"  he  added  lugubriously.  "How  about 
your  foreman?"  he  inquired,  as  if  snatching  at  a 
straw.  "Same  thing,  eh?  Well,  I  '11  go  you  —  next 
month." 

He  laughed,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  crowded 
his  big  black  sombrero  down  over  his  eyes  until  it 
gave  him  a  comical  air  of  despair. 

"Luck  's  gone,"  he  remarked,  reaching  parenthet- 
ically for  a  cigarette  paper.  "See  you  later."  And, 
with  a  last  roguish  twinkle  at  Miss  Lucy,  he  slouched 
off  toward  the  fire. 

His  luck  indeed  had  gone,  but  somewhere  in  that 
giant  carcass  which  harbored  the  vindictive  hate  of 
an  Apache,  and  the  restless  energy  of  a  Texano, 
there  still  lingered  the  exuberant  joyousness  of  a  boy, 

20  [305] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  indomitable  spirit  of  the  pioneer,  resigned  to 
any  fate  so  long  as  there  is  a  laugh  in  it.  As  he 
drifted  into  the  crowd  Lucy's  heart  went  out  to  him ; 
lie  was  so  big  and  strong  and  manly  in  this,  the  final 
eclipse  of  his  waning  fortunes. 

"Mr.  Creede  is  a  noble  kind  of  a  man,  isn't  he?" 
she  said,  turning  to  where  Hardy  was  still  standing. 
"Won't  you  sit  down,  Rufus,  and  let 's  talk  this  over 
for  a  minute.  But  before  you  decide  anything,  I 
want  you  to  get  a  good  night's  sleep.  You  are  a 
free  man  now,  you  know,  and  if  there  's  any  worry- 
ing to  be  done  it 's  my  funeral  —  is  n't  it?" 

If  he  heard  her  at  all  Hardy  made  no  response 
to  the  jest.  He  stood  before  her,  swaying  dizzily  as 
he  groped  about  for  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  from 
his  hand.  Then  at  last  a  faint  smile  broke  through 
the  drawn  lines  in  his  face. 

"That 's  right,"  he  said,  sinking  down  at  her  side, 
and  as  he  settled  back  against  the  tree  his  eyes  closed 
instantly,  like  a  child  whose  bedtime  has  come. 
"I  'm  —  I  'm  so  dead  tired  I  can't  talk  straight, 
Lucy  —  to  say  nothing  of  think.  But  —  I  '11  take 
care  of  you.  We  are  n't  sheeped  out  yet.  Only  — 
only  I  can't  —  I  forget  what  I  'm  going  to  say." 
His  head  fell  forward  as  he  spoke,  his  hands  hung 
heavy,  and  he  slipped  slowly  to  the  ground,  fast 
asleep. 

[306] 


,THE     CATASTROPHE 

After  two  days  and  nights  of  turmoil  and  passion 
his  troubles  were  ended,  suddenly;  and  as  she  raised 
him  up  Lucy  Ware  bent  down  quickly  under  cover 
of  the  dusk  and  kissed  his  rumpled  hair. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   DEPARTURE 

fT^HE  gentle  hand  of  sleep,  which  held  Hardy  in 
a  grip  that  was  akin  to  death,  blotting  out  the 
past  and  dispelling  all  remembrance  of  his  sorrows, 
failed  utterly  to  abate  the  fighting  spirit  of  Jefferson 
Creede  or  sap  the  Spartan  grimness  of  his  purpose. 
Worn  by  the  destroying  anger  of  the  previous  day, 
thwarted  and  apparently  defeated,  he  rose  up  at  the 
first  glow  of  dawn  and  set  about  his  preparations 
with  an  unemotional  directness  which  augured  ill 
for  Jasper  Swope.  Before  the  sun  was  an  hour  high 
he  had  the  town  herd  on  the  trail  for  Bender,  en- 
trusted to  the  care  of  Bill  Lightfoot  and  several 
others  of  whom  he  wanted  to  be  rid.  The  camp  was 
dismantled,  the  packs  were  loaded  upon  the  spare 
horses,  and  the  outfit  was  ready  to  start  for  Carrizo 
Creek  before  breakfast  was  more  than  finished  in 
the  ranch  house.  After  a  final  survey  to  make  sure 
that  nothing  had  been  overlooked  in  the  scuffle,  the 
rodeo  boss  waved  his  hand  to  the  leaders;  then,  as 
the  train  strung  out  up  the  canon,  he  rode  over  to 

[308] 


THE     DEPARTURE 

the  house  to  say  good-bye.  The  last  farewell  is  a 
formality  often  dispensed  with  in  the  Far  West; 
but  in  this  case  the  boss  had  business  to  attend  to, 
and  —  well,  he  had  something  to  say  to  Kitty  Bon- 
nair,  too. 

Very  quietly,  in  order  not  to  awaken  his  partner  — 
whom  he  had  picked  up  like  a  tired  baby  and  stored 
away  in  the  darkened  bunk-room  the  evening  before 
—  Creede  opened  the  door  of  the  living-room,  greeted 
his  lady-love  with  a  cheerful  grin,  and  beckoned  Miss 
Lucy  outside  by  a  backward  jerk  of  the  head. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Miss  Ware,"  he  said,  "but 
we  're  movin'  camp  this  mornin'  and  before  I  go  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  them  cattle  I  'm  just  sendin* 
to  town.  If  I  did  n't  have  other  business  on  hand 
I  'd  go  down  with  you  gladly  and  sell  'em  for  you, 
but  when  you  git  to  Bender  you  go  to  Chris  Johan- 
sen,  the  cattle  buyer,  and  give  him  this  list.  You 
won't  savvy  what  it  is  but  Chris  will,  and  you  tell 
him  that  if  he  don't  give  you  the  best  market  price 
for  them  cows  he  '11  have  to  —  lick  —  me !  This  is 
a  dry  year  and  feeders  ain't  much  nohow,  but  I  don't 
want  to  see  no  friend  of  mine  robbed.  Well,  so-long, 
Miss  Ware.  Hope  you  have  a  good  trip." 

He  gripped  her  hand  awkwardly,  picked  up  his 
bridle  lash,  and  thrust  one  boot  thoughtfully  into 
the  stirrup.  Then,  as  if  suddenly  cognizant  of  a 

[309] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

neglected  duty,  he  snapped  his  foot  out  and  threw 
the  lash  back  oh  the  ground. 

"I  '11  say  good-bye  to  the  judge,"  he  drawled, 
"so  's  to  show  they  ain't  no  hard  feelin'.  Your  old 
man  don't  exactly  fit  in  these  parts,"  he  observed 
apologetically,  "but  he  means  well,  I  reckon.  You 
can  tell  'im  some  time  that  I  was  kind  of  excited 
when  I  quit." 

His  farewell  was  a  sober  and  dignified  affair,  after 
the  courtly  school  of  the  South  —  no  allusions  to  the 
past,  no  references  to  the  future,  merely  a  gentle- 
manly expression  of  regret  that  his  guest's  visit 
should  have  been  so  suddenly  terminated.  But  when 
he  turned  to  Miss  Kitty  his  masterful  eyes  began  to 
glow  and  waver  and  he  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"Kin  I  speak  with  you  a  minute  outside?"  he  said, 
at  last;  and  Kitty,  still  eager  to  read  the  heart  of 
Man,  the  Unfinished,  followed  after  him,  laughing 
as  he  stooped  to  pass  his  high  hat  through  the  door. 

"Come  on  out  by  the  corral,"  he  urged,  confidently 
leading  the  way.  When  they  were  concealed  by  the 
corner  of  the  fence  he  stopped  and  dropped  his  bridle 
rein. 

"Well,  we  Ve  had  a  pretty  good  time  together  down 
here,  hain't  we?"  he  observed,  twisting  the  fringe  of 
his  shaps  and  smiling  at  her  from  beneath  his  fore- 
lock. "I  ain't  got  but  a  minute  —  and  there  's  some 

[310] 


THE    DEPARTURE 

rough  work  ahead,  I  reckon  =  but  I  jest  wanted  to 
tr—  well,  I  wanted  to  give  you  this."  He  dove  down 
into  his  overalls'  pocket  and  brought  up  a  nugget, 
worn  smooth  by  long  milling  around  between  his 
spare  change  and  his  jackknife. 

"That 's  a  chunk  of  gold  I  found  over  by  Red 
Butte  one  time,"  he  said,  handing  it  over.  "Thought 
you  might  want  to  keep  it  for  me,  you  know.  But 
say  — "  He  crowded  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
canted  his  head  to  one  side,  ogling  her  roguishly. 

Kitty  had  never  observed  just  such  conduct  before, 
and  she  was  curious. 

"Why  —  what?"  she  inquired,  tossing  back  her  hair 
tantalizingly. 

"Don't  I  git  nothin'  to  remember  you  by,  little 
girl?"  he  demanded,  his  voice  vibrant  with  passion. 
"We  've  been  pretty  good  friends,  you  know.  In 
fact  —  well,  say,  don't  I  git  jest  one  kiss?" 

He  drew  her  gently  into  his  arms  as  he  spoke, 
waited  a  fraction  of  a  second  for  her  to  resist,  and 
then  kissed  her,  suddenly  and  with  masterful  vio- 
lence. 

"One  more,"  he  pleaded  insistently.  "No?  All 
right  then,"  he  said,  swinging  gracefully  up  on  his 
horse  as  she  pushed  him  away.  "I  '11  always  remem- 
ber that  one,  anyhow!" 

He  leaned  forward  and  Bat  Wings  shot  away  up 

[311] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  canon  like  a  charger  that  sniffs  the  combat, 
thundering  out  across  the  parada  grounds,  swinging 
beneath  the  giant  mesquite,  and  plunging  down  the 
bank  that  led  to  the  creek.  And  all  the  time  his 
rider  sat  with  one  hand  on  the  eantle,  his  white  teeth 
flashing  back  a  wistful  smile. 

Taken  "by  surprise  Kitty  Bonnair  stood  staring 
blankly  after  him,  rubbing  her  cheek  which  burned 
hot  where  he  had  kissed  her.  She  would  always  re- 
member that  kiss  too,  and  all  too  late  she  remem- 
bered to  become  indignant.  But,  no  one  being 
about,  she  laughed  low  to  herself  and  hurried  back 
to  the  house,  her  eyes  downcast  and  pensive.  She 
had  known  many  men  and  lovers  in  her  time,  but 
never  a  one  like  Jeff  Creede. 

There  was  a  sound  of  hasty  packing  in  the  Dos  S 
ranch  house  that  morning,  and  the  wagon  drove 
noisily  up  to  the  door.  Rafael  carried  out  the  steamer 
trunks  and  luggage,  the  snake-skins,  the  smoky  opals, 
the  Indian  baskets,  the  braided  quirts,  and  all  the 
scattered  plunder  that  the  cowboys  had  given  Kitty 
and  that  she  could  not  bear  to  leave  behind.  He 
saddled  up  their  horses,  clattering  recklessly  into  the 
bunk-house  where  Hardy  was  sleeping  in  order  to 
get  his  blankets,  and  still,  unmindful  of  noise  or 
preparation,  or  the  friends  who  must  say  good-bye, 

[312] 


THE    DEPARTURE 

he  lay  sprawled  on  the  rough  blankets,  dead  with 
sleep. 

Rafael  kicked  off  the  brake  and  started  on  his 
weary  journey  around  Red  Butte  to  Moreno's, 
which  would  take  him  the  rest  of  the  day;  Judge 
Ware,  possessed  to  get  out  of  the  country  before  he 
became  particeps  criminis  to  some  lawless  outrage, 
paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  ramada,  waiting 
for  the  girls  to  get  ready;  and  Kitty  and  Lucy, 
glancing  guiltily  at  each  other,  fidgeted  around  in 
their  rooms  waiting  for  Rufus  to  wake  up. 

"I  'm  ready,"  said  Lucy  at  last,  putting  the  final 
touches  to  the  room  which  he  had  given  up  to  her. 
"Are  you,  Kitty?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  an  uneasy  stare,  each  wishing 
the  other  would  speak. 

"Yes,"  said  Kitty,  "but  —  shall  we  go  without  say- 
ing good-bye?" 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  girls  waiting  for?" 
demanded  the  judge,  thrusting  his  head  impatiently 
in  at  the  door.  "I  declare,  I  begin  to  think  there 
is  something  in  these  jokes  about  Adam  waiting  for 
Eve  to  get  her  hat  on  straight.  Now  please  come 
at  once  or  we  won't  get  to  Moreno's  in  time  for  sup- 
per." 

"But,  father,"  protested  Lucy,  "Kitty  and  I  do  not 

[313] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

wish  to  leave  without  saying  good-bye  to  Rufus. 
Would  you  mind  — " 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Judge  Ware  irritably,  "if  he 
chooses  to  sleep  all  day  — " 

"But,  father!"  burst  out  Lucy,  almost  tearfully,  "he 
was  so  tired  —  he  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  he  sat  down, 
and  I  never  did  get  him  to  consent  to  be  my  superin- 
tendent !  Don't  you  see  — " 

"Well,  write  him  a  note  then,"  directed  the  judge 
brusquely,  "and  leave  it  on  his  desk.  Now,  Lucy 
dear,  really  I  'm  getting  so  nervous  I  'm  hardly  ac- 
countable. Please  hurry.  And,  Kitty,  please  hurry, 
too!" 

Like  two  souls  haled  from  the  world  without  a 
word  of  explanation  or  confession,  Kitty  and  Lucy 
both  sat  down  under  duress  to  pen  a  last  appeal  to 
the  little  man  who,  despite  his  stern  disregard,  some- 
how held  a  place  in  their  hearts.  Kitty  could  have 
wept  with  vexation  at  the  thought  of  not  seeing  him 
again  —  and  after  she  had  brought  her  mind  to  for- 
give him,  too !  She  wrote  blindly,  she  knew  not  what, 
whether  it  was  accusation  or  entreaty,  and  sealed  the 
envelope  with  a  bang  of  her  tiny  fist  —  and  even  then 
he  did  not  awaken.  Lucy  wrote  carefully,  wrestling 
to  turn  the  implacable  one  from  his  purpose  and  yet 
feeling  that  he  would  have  his  will.  She  sealed  her 
note  and  put  it  upon  his  desk  hesitatingly;  then,  as 

[314] 


THE    DEPARTURE 

Kitty  turned  away,  she  dropped  her  handkerchief 
beside  it.  It  was  a  time-worn  strategy,  such  as  only 
the  innocent  and  guileless  think  of  in  their  hour  of 
adversity.  When  she  ran  back  to  recover  it  Lucjr 
drew  a  dainty  book  from  her  bosom  —  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's "Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese" — and  placed 
it  across  her  note  as  if  to  save  it  from  the  wind,  and 
between  two  leaves  she  slipped  the  forget-me-nots 
which  he  had  given  her  at  Hidden  Water. 

As  the  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  died  away  silence  set- 
tled down  upon  the  Dos  S  ranch  house,  the  sombre 
silence  of  the  desert,  unbroken  by  the  murmur  of 
women's  voices  or  the  echo  of  merry  laughter,  and  the 
sleeping  man  stirred  uneasily  on  his  bed.  An  hour 
passed,  and  then  from  the  ramada  there  came  a 
sound  of  wailing.  Hardy  rose  up  on  his  bed  sud- 
denly, startled.  The  memory  of  the  past  came  to 
him  vaguely,  like  fragments  of  an  eerie  dream;  then 
the  world  came  right  and  he  found  himself  in  the 
bunk-house,  alone  —  and  Tommy  outside,  crying  as 
if  for  the  dead.  Leaping  up  from  his  blankets 
Hardy  opened  the  door  and  called  him  in  —  hoarse, 
black,  distorted,  yet  overflowing  with  love  and  affec- 
tion. Poor  little  Tommy!  He  took  him  in  his  arms 
to  comfort  him,  and  bedded  him  down  on  the  pillow. 
But  when  he  stepped  outside  he  found  that  his  world 
too  was  vacant  —  the  house  deserted,  the  corrals 

[315] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

empty,  the  rodeo  camp  a  smouldering  fireplace,  sur- 
rounded by  a  wilderness  of  tin  cans. 

As  the  slow  grief  of  the  forsaken  came  upon  him 
he  turned  and  went  to  his  room,  where  the  atmos- 
phere of  womankind  still  lingered  to  suggest  the 
dear  hands  that  were  gone,  and  suddenly  his  eyes 
leaped  to  the  letters  left  upon  the  table.  It  was 
Kitty's  which  he  opened  first,  perhaps  because  it  was 
nearest;  but  the  torrent  of  inconsequential  words 
confused  him  by  their  unreason  and  he  turned  to 
Lucy's,  reading  it  over  thoughtfully. 

"DEAR  RUFUS: 

"We  have  waited  a  long  time  for  you  to  wake  up,  and  now 
father  says  we  must  go.  You  were  so  tired  last  night  that 
I  doubt  if  you  heard  a  word  I  said,  although  I  thought  I 
was  making  a  great  impression  in  my  new  role  as  a  business 
woman.  I  asked  father  to  give  me  the  ranch,  not  because  I 
wanted  to  own  it  but  to  save  you  from  your  madness.  The 
cattle  are  all  mine  now  and  I  leave  them  in  your  care.  What- 
ever you  do  I  will  consent  to,  if  you  will  leave  your  guns  at 
home.  Is  that  too  much  for  a  friend  to  ask?  I  know  that 
Mr.  Creede  is  your  friend  too,  and  I  admire  your  devotion 
to  his  cause,  but  I  think  you  can  do  just  as  much  for  him 
and  more  by  not  risking  your  life  in  a  battle  against  the  sheep. 
They  are  so  many,  Rufus,  and  they  have  their  rights,  too. 
Father  is  confident  that  the  Forest  Reserve  will  be  declared 
next  Winter  and  then  the  sheep  will  be  debarred  forever. 
Can't  youj  give  over  the  fight  for  my  sake?  And  I  will  pay 
you  any  price — I  will  do  anything  you  ask ;  but  if  you  should 

[316]   ' 


THE    DEPARTURE 

be  killed  or  kill  some  other  man,  I  could  never  be  happy  again, 
though  I  gained  the  whole  world.  Dear  Rufus,  please — but 
I  leave  it  for  you  to  decide — " 

The  note  ended  abruptly,  it  was  not  even  signed, 
and  Hardy  could  imagine  the  agitation  in  which  it 
was  written.  Dear  little  Lucy,  always  thinking  of 
others,  always  considerate,  always  honest  and  reason- 
able. If  only  Kitty  —  But  no  —  in  her  own  right 
as  Queen  of  Love  and  of  his  heart,  she  was  above  all 
criticism  and  blame.  It  was  a  madness,  deeper  than 
his  anger  against  the  sheep,  mightier  than  his  fiercest 
resentment  —  he  could  not  help  it;  he  loved  her. 
Changeable,  capricious,  untamed,  she  held  him  by  her 
faults  where  virtues  would  hardly  have  sufficed  in 
another.  He  had  tried,  and  failed;  so  long  as  she 
was  in  the  world  he  must  love  her.  But  what  a  life ! 
He  cast  the  letter  from  him  and  his  heart  turned  to 
Jeff ~and  the  big  fight,  the  battle  that  they  had 
planned  to  wage  together.  In  the  rush  and  struggle 
of  that  combat  he  could  forget  the  pangs  which  tor- 
tured him ;  he  could  have  his  revenge  on  life,  which  had 
treated  him  so  shabbily !  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  could 
he  desert  a  friend  like  Lucy  —  Lucy  who  would  give 
her  life  to  make  him  happier,  who  had  always  by 
every  act  tried  to  make  him  forget  his  sorrows  ? 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  think- 

[317] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

ing.  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  down  his  long- 
barrelled  Colt's,  fingered  it  lovingly,  and  thrust  it, 
scabbard  and  all,  into  the  depths  of  his  war  bag. 

As  he  rode  down  the  hill  into  the  camp  that  after- 
noon Creede  came  out  to  meet  him,  and  when  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  empty  belt,  he  smiled  knowingly. 

"Well,  you  woke  up,  did  you?"  he  inquired,  laying 
one  hand  carelessly  on  the  bulge  in  Hardy's  right 
shap,  where  modest  cowboys  sometimes  secrete  their 
guns.  "Um-huh!"  he  grunted,  slapping  the  left 
shap  to  make  sure.  "I  suspected  as  much.  Well, 
I  congratulate  you,  supe  —  if  my  girl  had  asked  me  I 
reckon  I  'd  've  give  up  my  gun  too.  But  she  gimme 
a  kiss,  anyway,"  he  added,  tossing  his  head  trium- 
phantly. 

"Who  did?"  demanded  Hardy,  coming  suddenly 
out  of  his  dream. 

"Why,  Kitty,  sure,"  returned  Creede  artlessly; 
and  then,  noting  the  look  of  incredulity  on  his  part- 
ner's face,  he  slapped  him  on  the  leg  and  laughed  con- 
sumedly. 

"Oh,  you  're  not  the  only  pebble  on  the  beach,"  he 
cried.  "Ump-um —  there  are  others!  Say,  it's 
hell  to  be  in  love,  ain't  it?" 

He  looked  up  at  Hardy,  the  laughter  still  in  his 
cheeks,  but  for  once  there  was  no  answering  smile. 
The  large  gray  eyes  were  far  away  and  distant, 

[318] 


THE    DEPARTURE 

fixed  vacantly  upon  the  dust  cloud  where  the  sheep 
gathered  in  the  east.  Then,  as  if  dismissing  some 
haunting  vision  from  his  mind,  the  little  man  shook 
himself  and  drew  away. 

"That 's  right,"  he  said  solemnly,  "it  is." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHICO   AND    GRANDE 

T)  ETWEEN  the  mouth  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  and 
the  cow  camp  at  Carrizo  Creek  there  lie  three 
high  ridges  and  three  broad  valleys,  all  running  north 
and  south  from  the  Peaks  to  Bronco  Mesa  —  the 
heart  of  the  upper  range ;  and  there  in  compact  bands 
the  invaders  held  their  sheep.  From  the  lower  levels 
they  strayed  out  gradually  over  the  rocky  mesa; 
above  they  clambered  up  toward  the  wooded  peaks; 
but  at  night  the  sheepmen  worked  back  to  the  three 
ridges  and  camped  close  together  for  defence.  After 
many  years  of  struggle  they  had  at  last  obtained 
their  legal  rights  —  their  sheep  were  up  to  the  ears 
in  grama,  eating  out  the  heart  of  the  cow  country 
—  but  Jeff  Creede  was  just  over  the  hill,  and  the 
Mexicans  were  afraid.  For  years  now  the  huge 
form  of  "Grande"  had  loomed  before  them  whenever 
they  entered  that  forbidden  range,  and  they  had 
always  given  way  before  him.  And  now  he  had  the 
little  man  Chico  with  him,  the  son  of  a  soldier,  so 
it  was  said,  and  a  gentleman  of  categoria;  he  always 
carried  a  pistol  and  his  eyes  were  stern  and  hard. 

[320] 


-CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

What  would  not  Chico  and  Grande  do  to  them,  now 
that  they  were  like  bees  robbed  of  their  long-hoarded 
honey,  who  have  nothing  left  but  their  stings? 

So  the  word  passed  around  amongst  the  herders  and 
camp  rustlers,  and  Jim  and  Jasp  rode  from  one  camp 
to  the  other,  cursing  and  exhorting  and  holding  them 
to  their  work.  The  hour  of  victory  had  come,  but 
their  triumph  was  poisoned  by  a  haunting  fear  for 
their  sheep.  One  hundred  thousand  sheep  —  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  —  the  accumulation 
of  a  lifetime  —  and  all  in  the  hands  of  these  cowardly 
Mexicans,  not  half  of  whom  would  fight!  For  the 
day  or  two  that  they  held  together  they  were  safe, 
but  when  they  spread  out  —  and  spread  they  must, 
to  reach  the  western  pass  —  then  the  cowmen  could 
rush  them  at  night  like  lions  that  raid  a  corral,  scat- 
tering one  band  after  the  other,  and  the  coyotes 
would  do  the  rest!  That  was  the  joint  in  the  armor 
of  the  sheepmen,  and  it  robbed  them  of  their  sleep. 

Evening  came,  and  the  fires  of  the  camp  rustlers 
on  the  ridges  lit  up  the  dust  cloud  that  hung  in  the 
east.  The  hateful  bray  of  the  sheep  was  hushed,  at 
last,  and  the  shrill  yell  of  the  coyotes  rose  from  every 
hilltop,  bidding  farewell  to  the  sun;  for  as  vultures 
and  unnumbered  birds  of  prey  hovered  in  the  wake 
of  barbarian  armies,  casting  their  dread  shadows  upon 
the  living  and  glutting  upon  the  dead,  so  the  coyotes 

21  [321] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

follow  tirelessly  after  the  sheep,  gorging  upon  chance 
carcasses  and  pulling  down  the  strays.  As  the  wild, 
gibbering  chorus  rose  and  quavered  back  from  the 
cliffs  the  cowmen  at  Carrizo  glanced  up  from  their 
supper  and  swore,  and  in  the  general  preoccupation 
Hardy  put  down  his  plate  and  slipped  away  to  the 
corral.  He  was  sitting  on  the  fence  listening  to  the 
mad  yelping  of  the  coyotes  and  watching  the  shadows 
gather  among  the  peaks,  when  Creede  strolled  over 
and  joined  him.  There  were  times  when  he  could 
read  Hardy  like  a  book,  but  at  others  the  little  man's 
thoughts  were  hidden,  and  he  brooded  by  himself. 
On  such  occasions,  after  a  sufficient  interval,  Jeff  es- 
teemed it  his  duty  to  break  in  upon  these  unprofitable 
ruminations  and  bring  him  back  to  the  light.  So 
he  clambered  up  on  the  top  log  and  joined  in  the 
contemplation  of  nature. 

"Hear  them  dam'  coyotes,"  he  observed  sociably. 
"They  'd  cry  that  way  if  they  'd  had  a  chicken  dinner, 
all  around.  I  bet  ye  every  one  of  'em  has  got  wool 
in  his  teeth,  right  now.  Never  you  mind,  birdie," 
he  continued,  apostrophizing  a  peculiarly  shrill- 
voiced  howler,  "I  '11  give  you  a  bellyful  of  mutton 
pretty  soon,  if  it 's  the  last  act.  What  you  going  to 
do  now,  Rufe?" 

"Well,"  answered  Hardy,  "I  think  I  '11  try  and 
earn  my  salary  by  moving  a  few  sheep.  And  of  course 

[322] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

we  want  to  gather  every  beef  critter  we  can  now, 
while  they  're  fat.  The  sheep  seem  to  be  hugging  the 
mountain  pretty  close.  What 's  the  matter  with 
working  the  Pocket  Butte  to-morrow  and  while  the 
boys  are  riding  we  '11  warn  all  the  stragglers  down 
there  to  keep  up  against  the  hills ;  then  as  soon  as  we 
get  'em  located  we  '11  jump  in  some  day  and  move 


'em!' 


"Huh?"  inquired  Creede,  shoving  back  his  hat  and 
staring.  "Did  I  hear  you  say  'move  'em'?  Well — 
er  —  I  thought  you  left  your  gun  at  home,"  he  sug- 
gested guardedly. 

"That 's  right,"  admitted  Hardy,  "but  don't  you 
let  that  worry  you  any.  I  told  you  I  'd  help  move 
those  sheep,  and  I'll  do  it!  We  don't  need  guns, 
anyhow.  Why,  I  'd  just  as  soon  tackle  a  rattlesnake 
bare-handed  as  go  after  Jasp  Swope  with  my  six- 
shooter.  That 's  just  what  he  's  looking  for,  boy, 
with  all  those  thirty-thirties  behind  him,  and  he  '11 
have  plenty  of  witnesses  there  to  swear  us  into  Yuma, 
too.  I  tell  you,  Jeff,  I  've  been  thinking  this  over,  and 
I  believe  my  boss  is  right." 

"Sure,"  said  Creede,  showing  his  teeth  in  the 
twilight. 

"Say,  let  up  on  that,  will  you?"  exclaimed  Hardy 
irritably.  "I  'm  talking  business.  Now  you  let  me 
tell  you  something."  He  paused,  and  fixed  his  eye 

[323] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

on  the  dust  cloud,  intently.  "I  Ve  moved  that  many 
sheep  twice,"  he  said,  throwing  out  his  hand,  "and 
I  left  my  gun  at  home." 

"That 's  right,"  conceded  Creede. 

"Well  now,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do,"  continued 
Hardy.  "If  you  '11  leave  your  gun  at  home  too  and 
stay  with  me  on  this  I  '11  undertake  to  shoot  the  last 
sheep  out  through  West  Pass  inside  of  a  week.  And 
the  only  chance  we  take  is  of  getting  shot  at  or  ar- 
rested for  assault  and  battery.  The  Territorial 
Prison  end  of  this  gun  business  never  did  appeal  me, 
anyway." 

"No  —  nor  me  either!     But  what's  the  scheme?" 

The  big  cowboy  leaned  forward  eagerly,  his  eyes 
flashing  as  he  half  guessed  the  plan. 

"We  ride  out  together,"  said  Hardy,  his  voice  far 
away,  as  if  he  saw  it  in  his  mind's  eye,  "unarmed  — 
and  we  notify  every  sheep-herder  we  see  to  move. 
If  Jasp  Swope  or  any  of  his  men  kill  us  while  we  're 
unarmed  it  '11  be  cold-blooded  murder,  and  there  '11 
be  witnesses  to  prove  it.  And  if  the  sheep  don't 
move,  we  'II  move  *em!  What  kind  of  a  crime  is 
that,  anyway  —  to  drive  sheep  off  the  public  range  ? 
There  is  n't  an  officer  of  the  law  within  sixty  miles, 
anyhow;  and  if  anybody  pulls  a  gun  on  us  we  can 
slug  him  in  self-defence." 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

"Sure,"  agreed  Creede,  "but  suppose  one  of  them 
big-headed  Chihuahua  Mexicans  should  happen  to 
shoot  you?" 

"Well  then,  I  'd  be  dead,"  said  Hardy  soberly. 
"But  would  n't  you  rather  be  dead  than  shut  up  in 
that  hell-hole  down  at  Yuma?" 

"Yes!"  cried  Creede,  holding  out  his  hands  as  if 
taking  an  oath.  "I  would,  by  God !" 

"Well,  come  on  then!"  said  Hardy,  and  they  shook 
hands  on  it  like  brothers. 

When  the  rodeo  outfit  was  gathered  together  in 
the  morning  Jefferson  Creede  deliberately  un- 
strapped his  cartridge  belt  and  threw  his  pistol  back 
onto  his  bed.  Then  he  winked  at  his  partner  as  if, 
rightly  understood,  the  action  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
joke,  and  led  the  way  to  Pocket  Butte. 

"You  fellows  rake  the  ridges  to  Bullpit  Valley," 
he  said,  briefly  assigning  every  man  to  his  post. 
"Rufe  'n  me  '11  hold  'em  up  for  you  about  four 
o'clock,  but  don't  rush  the  funeral  —  we  're  goin'  to 
move  a  few  sheep  first." 

He  smiled  mysteriously  as  he  spoke,  staving  off 
their  pointed  queries  with  equivocal  answers. 

"See  you  later,"  he  observed,  turning  his  horse  into 
a  sheep  trail,  and  with  that  the  outfit  was  forced  to 
be  content. 

[325] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

The  offending  sheep  were  found  feeding  along  the 
eastern  slope  of  a  long  ridge  that  led  down  from  the 
upper  ground,  and  the  herders  were  camped  on 
the  summit.  There  were  four  men  gathered  about  the 
jfire  and  as  the  cowboys  approached  three  of  them 
picked  up  their  carbines  and  sat  off  to  one  side,  fin- 
gering the  locks  nervously.  The  appearance  of  Jeff 
Creede  spelled  trouble  to  all  sheepmen  and  there  were 
few  camps  on  Bronco  Mesa  which  did  not  contain  a 
herder  who  had  been  unceremoniously  moved  by  him. 
13ut  this  time  the  fire-eating  cowman  rode  grandly 
into  camp  without  any  awe-inspiring  demonstrations 
whatever. 

"Are  those  your  sheep?"  he  inquired,  pointing  to 
the  grazing  herd. 

"Si  senor"  responded  the  boss  herder  humbly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Creede,  "move  'em,  and  move 
*em  quick.  I  give  you  three  days  to  get  through 
that  pass."  He  stretched  a  heavily  muscled  arm 
irery  straight  toward  the  notch  in  the  western  hills 
and  turned  abruptly  away.  Hardy  swung  soberly 
In  behind  him  and  the  frightened  Chihuahuanos  were 
Beginning  to  breathe  again  after  their  excitement 
ivhen  suddenly  Jeff  stopped  his  horse. 

"Say,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  boss,  "what  you 
carryin'  that  cow's  horn  for?" 

At  this  pointed  inquiry  the  boss  herder  flinched 

[326] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

and  looked  downcast,  toying  uneasily  with  the 
primitive  instrument  at  his  side. 

"To  blow,"  he  answered  evasively. 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  blow  it,  then,"  suggested 
Creede  amiably.  "No  —  go  on!  I  don't  care  what 
happens.  Aw  here,  let  me  have  it  a  minute!" 

He  grabbed  the  horn  away  impatiently,  wiped 
the  mouthpiece  with  his  sleeve,  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  blew.  A  deep  bass  roar  answered  to  his  effort, 
a  bellow  such  as  the  skin-clad  hunters  of  antiquity 
sent  forth  when  they  wound  the  horn  for  their 
hounds,  and  the  hills  and  valleys  of  Carrizo  and  the 
upper  mesa  echoed  to  the  blast. 

"Say,  that's  great!"  exclaimed  the  big  cowboy, 
good-naturedly  resisting  the  appeals  of  the  herder. 
"I  used  to  have  one  like  that  when  I  was  a  boy*  Oh, 
I  'm  a  blower,  all  right  —  listen  to  this,  now!"  He 
puffed  out  his  chest,  screwed  his  lips  into  the  horn, 
and  blew  again,  loud  and  long. 

"How's  that  for  high?"  he  inquired,  glancing 
roguishly  at  his  partner.  "And  I  could  keep  it  up 
all  day,"  he  added,  handing  the  horn  back,  "only 
I  've  got  business  elsewhere." 

"Oyez,  amigo"  he  said,  bending  his  brow  sud- 
denly upon  the  Mexican  herder,  "remember,  now  — 
in  three  days!"  He  continued  the  sentence  by  a 
comprehensive  sweep  of  the  hand  from  that  spot  out 

[327] 


HIDDEN    [WATER 

through  the  western  pass,  favored  each  of  the  three 
Chihuahuanos  with  an  abhorrent  scowl,  and  rode 
slowly  away  down  the  hogback. 

"Notice  anything  funny  over  on  that  ridge?"  he 
asked,  jerking  his  head  casually  toward  the  east. 
"That 's  Swope  and  Co. —  the  Sheepmen's  Pro- 
tective Association  —  coming  over  to  rescue  com- 
panero"  A  line  of  rapidly  moving  specks  proved 
the  truth  of  his  observation,  and  Creede's  shoulders 
shook  with  laughter  as  he  noted  their  killing  pace. 

"I  tumbled  to  the  idee  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  that 
cow's  horn,"  he  said.  "It 's  like  this.  Every  boss 
herder  has  a  horn;  if  he  gits  into  trouble  he  blows 
it  and  all  hands  come  a-runnin'  to  shoot  holes  in  Mr. 
Cowman  —  think  I  '11  make  one  myself." 

He  halted  behind  a  rock  and  scrutinized  the  ap- 
proaching horsemen  over  the  top. 

"That 's  Jasp,  in  front,"  he  observed  impersonally. 
"I  would  n't  mind  ownin'  that  black  mule  of  his'n, 
neither.  We  '11  jest  wait  until  they  dip  down  into  the 
canon  and  then  double  in  back  of  him,  and  scare  up 
them  hombres  over  at  the  mouth  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket. 
We  want  to  git  'em  started  out  of  that.  I  believe 
you  're  right,  though,  Ruf  e  —  we  can  run  this  bunch 
out  without  firin'  a  shot." 

That  evening  after  the  day's  riding  Creede  sat 
down  on  his  heels  by  the  fire  and  heated  the  end  of 

[8281 


CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

an  iron  rod.  In  his  other  hand  he  held  a  horn, 
knocked  from  the  bleaching  skeleton  of  a  steer  that 
had  died  by  the  water,  and  to  its  end  where  the  tip 
had  been  sawed  off  he  applied  the  red-hot  iron,  burn- 
ing a  hole  through  to  the  hollow  centre. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  turning  to  one  of  the  Clark  boys, 
"do  you  want  a  little  excitement  to-morrow?  Well 
then,  you  take  this  old  horn  and  go  play  hide  'n'  seek 
with  Jasp.  Keep  him  chasin',  and  while  the  rest  of 
the  boys  are  gatherin'  cattle  Ruf e  and  me  will  move 
a  few  sheep." 

"Well,  say,"  broke  in  Ben  Reavis  impatiently, 
"where  do  us  fellers  come  in  on  this  play?  I  thought 
there  was  goin'  to  be  a  few  shap  lessons  and  a  little 
night  work." 

"Well,"  responded  the  rodeo  boss  philosophically, 
"any  time  you  fellers  want  to  go  up  against  them 
thirty-thirties  you  can  do  so.  It 's  your  own  funeral, 
and  I  '11  promise  to  do  the  honors  right.  But  I  'm 
a  law-abidin'  cuss  myself.  I  'm  all  the  law  now, 
ever  since  I  talked  with  Jim  Swope  —  it 's  the  great- 
est graft  they  is." 

He  paused,  busily  scraping  his  horn  with  a  piece  of 
glass. 

"They  's  no  doubt  about  it,  fellers,"  he  said  at  last, 
"we  Ve  been  slow  in  the  head.  It 's  a  wonder  we 
ain't  all  of  us  makin'  hat  bands  in  Yuma,  by  this 

[329] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

time.  I  used  to  think  that  if  you  didn't  like  a 
sheepman's  looks  the  way  to  do  was  to  wade  in  and 
work  him  over  a  little ;  but  that 's  a  misdemeanor,  and 
it  don't  go  now.  It  took  as  good  a  man  as  Rufe, 
here,  to  put  me  wise;  but  I  leave  my  gun  in  camp 
after  this.  I  've  got  them  Greasers  buffaloed,  any- 
how, and  Jasp  knows  if  he  plugs  me  when  I  'm  un- 
armed it  '11  be  a  sure  shot  for  the  pen.  The  time  may 
come  when  guns  is  necessary,  but  I  move  that  every 
man  leave  his  six-shooter  in  his  bed  and  we  '11  go 
after  'em  with  our  bare  hands.  What  d'  ye  say,  Ben?" 

Ben  Reavis  rose  up  on  one  elbow,  rolled  his  eyes 
warily,  and  passed  a  jet  of  tobacco  juice  into  the 
hissing  fire. 

"Not  f 'r  me,"  he  said,  with  profane  emphasis. 

"No,  ner  f'r  me,  either,"  chimed  in  Charley  Clark. 
"A  man  stays  dead  a  long  time  in  this  dry  climate." 

"Well,  you  fellers  see  how  many  of  my  steers  you 
can  ketch,  then,"  said  Creede,  "and  I  '11  move  them 
sheep  myself  —  leastways,  me  and  Rufe." 

"All  right,"  assented  Reavis  resignedly,  "but  you 
want  to  hurry  up.  I  saw  a  cloud  o'  dust  halfway 
to  Hidden  Water  this  afternoon." 

The  next  morning  as  the  rodeo  outfit  hustled  out 
to  pick  up  what  cattle  they  could  before  they  were 
scattered  by  the  sheep,  Jim  Clark,  tall,  solemn- 
faced,  and  angular,  rode  by  devious  ways  toward  the 

[330] 


CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

eastern  shoulder  of  the  Four  Peaks,  where  a  distant 
clamor  told  of  the  great  herds  which  mowed 
the  mountain  slopes  like  a  thousand  sickles.  Having 
seen  him  well  on  his  way  Creede  and  Hardy  galloped 
down  the  canon,  switched  off  along  the  hillside  and,. 

"  i  leaving  their  horses  among  the  rocks,  climbed  up  on 
a  rocky  butte  to  spy  out  the  land  below.  High 
ridges  and  deep  canons,  running  down  from  the 

i  flanks  of  the  Four  Peaks,  lay  to  the  east  and  north 
and  west ;  and  to  the  south  they  merged  into  the  broad 

;  expanse  of  Bronco  Mesa. 

There  it  lay,  a  wilderness  of  little  hills  and  valleys, 
flat-topped  benches  and  sandy  gulches  threaded 
minutely  with  winding  trails  and  cow  paths,  greenr 
with  the  illusion  of  drought-proof  giant  cactus  and 

,  vivid  desert  bushes,  one  vast  preserve  of  browse  and 
grass  from  the  Peaks  to  the  gorge  of  the  Salagua. 
Here  was  the  last  battle-ground,  the  last  stand  of 
the  cowmen  against  the  sheep,  and  then  unless  that 
formless  myth,  "The  Government,"  which  no  man 
had  ever  seen  or  known,  stepped  in,  there  would  be 
no  more  of  the  struggle;  the  green  mesa  would  be 
stripped  of  its  evanescent  glory  and  the  sheep  would 
wander  at  will.  But  as  long  as  there  was  still  a 
chance  and  the  cows  had  young  calves  that  would  die, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  fight  on,  warily  and 
desperately,  to  the  end. 

[331] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

As  Jefferson  Creede  looked  out  across  that  noble 
landscape  which  he  had  struggled  so  resolutely  to  save 
and  saw  the  dust  clouds  of  the  sheep  drifting  across 
it,  the  tears  came  to  his  eyes  and  blinded  his  keen 
vision.  Here  at  last  was  the  end  of  all  his  struggles 
and  all  his  dreams;  another  year,  or  two  years,  and 
the  mesa  would  be  devastated  utterly;  his  cows  would 
be  hollow-flanked  and  gaunted;  his  calves  would  tot- 
ter and  die,  their  tender  lips  pierced  with  the  spiny 
cactus  upon  which  their  hard-mouthed  mothers 
starved;  and  all  that  fair  land  which  he  knew  and 
loved  so  well  would  be  lost  to  him  forever.  He  raised 
Ms  hand  to  his  eyes  as  if  shading  them  from  the  sun, 
and  brushed  the  tears  away. 

"Well,  look  at  those  sons  o*  guns  hike,"  he  said, 
baring  his  teeth  venomously,  "and  every  band  headed 
for  Hidden  Water !  Go  it,  you  tarriers  —  and  if 
you  can't  stop  to  eat  the  grass,  tromple  on  it!  But 
wait,  and  if  I  don't  push  in  some  Greaser's  face 
to-day  it  '11  be  because  every  one  of  them  bands  is 
headin'  for  the  western  pass." 

He  clambered  slowly  down  from  his  perch  and 
swung  up  into  the  saddle. 

"Talkin'  never  did  do  much  good  with  a  sheep- 
herder,"  he  observed  wisely.  "As  the  old  judge  used 
to  say,  'y°u  Ve  got  to  appeal  to  his  better  nature' — 
with  a  club." 

[332] 


CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

The  most  southerly  of  the  seven  bands  was  strung 
out  in  marching  order,  the  goats  in  front,  the  hun- 
griest sheep  in  the  lead;  and  on  both  flanks  and  far 
behind,  the  groups  and  clusters  of  feeders,  pushing 
out  into  the  grassy  flats  and  rearing  up  against  the 
trees  and  bushes.  Without  a  word  to  the  herders 
Creede  and  Hardy  took  down  their  ropes  and, 
swinging  the  hondas  upon  the  goats,  turned  the  ad- 
vance guard  northwest.  The  main  herd  and  the  drag 
followed,  and  then  the  herders,  all  in  a  bunch  for 
courage. 

"This  is  the  last  time  I  talk  to  you,"  said  Creede, 
his  voice  stifled  with  anger.  "Turn  to  the  north, 
now,  and  keep  a-goin'." 

He  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  rode  west  to  the 
second  herd,  and  by  noon  they  had  turned  all  seven 
toward  the  western  pass.  Every  herder  had  his 
cow's  horn  and  some  of  them  were  blowing  continu- 
ally, but  no  one  answered,  and  a  messenger  was  sent 
east  for  aid.  They  camped  for  the  heat  of  the  day, 
making  smoke  upon  the  ridges,  but  no  help  came. 
As  the  sun  sank  low  and  the  curly-necked  Merinos 
rose  up  from  their  huddle  and  began  to  drift  the  Mex- 
icans turned  them  perforce  to  the  north,  looking  back 
sulkily  toward  the  mouth  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket  where 
other  smokes  rose  against  the  sky.  Until  the  sun  set 
they  travelled,  making  their  three  miles  and  more, 

[333] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  not  until  they  had  corralled  their  flocks  for  the 
night  did  Chico  and  Grande,  the  little  and  big 
terrors  of  the  sheep,  give  way  from  their  strenuous 
labors. 

It  was  two  hours  after  dark  when  they  rode  wearily 
into  the  camp  at  Carrizo  Creek.  The  fire  was  dying 
down  to  embers  and  the  rodeo  outfit,  worn  out,  had 
turned  in,  some  in  the  tin  house,  others  outside,  under 
the  brush  ramada  to  escape  the  dew.  No  one  moved 
as  they  approached  but  Creede  did  not  scruple  to 
wake  up  Jim  Clark  in  order  to  learn  the  news. 

"How  'd  the  old  horn  work?"  he  inquired  cheer- 

ay. 

"No  good,"  grunted  Clark,  rolling  over. 

"Aw,  go  on,  would  n't  they  chase  ye?" 

"Nope.  Nothin'  doin'.  Say,  lemme  sleep,  will 
ye?" 

"Sure,"  said  Creede,  "when  I  git  through  with  you. 
Which  way  was  them  sheep  travellin'?" 

"Well,  some  was  goin'  straight  up  over  the  Four 
Peaks  and  the  rest  was  p'intin'  west.  You  and  your 
old  horn  —  I  nigh  blowed  my  fool  head  off  and  never 
got  a  rise !  They  was  all  blowin'  them  horns  over  by 
the  Pocket  this  aft." 

"Um,"  said  Creede,  "they  was  all  blowin',  hey? 
And  what  else  was  they  doin'  ?" 

"Shootin',   fer   further  orders,  and  driftin'  their 

[334] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

sheep.  They  's  about  a  hundred  thousand,  right  over 
the  hill." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Creede,  turning  to  his  belated  din- 
ner, "what  d'  ye  make  of  that,  Rufe?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Hardy,  "except  more  work." 

It  seemed  as  if  he  had  hardly  fallen  asleep  when 
Creede  was  up  again,  hurling  the  wood  on  the  fire. 

"Pile  out,  fellers!"  he  shouted.  "You  can  sleep 
all  day  bimebye.  Come  on,  Rufe  —  d'ye  want  to 
find  them  sheep  in  the  corral  when  you  go  back  to 
Hidden  Water?"  And  so  with  relentless  energy  he 
roused  them  up,  divided  out  the  work,  and  was  off 
again  for  Bronco  Mesa. 

It  was  early  when  they  arrived  at  the  first  deserted 
sheep  camp,  but  search  as  they  would  they  could 
see  no  signs  of  the  sheep.  The  puny  fire  over  which 
the  herders  had  fried  their  bread  and  mutton  was 
wind-blown  and  cold,  the  burros  and  camp  rustlers 
were  gone,  and  there  was  no  guiding  dust  cloud  again 
the  sky.  From  the  little  butte  where  Creede  and 
Hardy  stood  the  lower  mesa  stretched  away  before 
them  like  a  rocky,  cactus-covered  plain,  the  countless 
ravines  and  gulches  hidden  by  the  dead  level  of  the 
benches,  and  all  empty,  lifeless,  void.  They  rode  for 
the  second  camp,  farther  to  the  west,  and  it  too  was 
deserted,  the  sheep  tracks  cunningly  milled  in  order 
to  hide  the  trail. 

[335] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"They  're  gittin'  foxy,"  commented  Creede,  cir- 
cling wide  to  catch  the  trend  of  their  departure,  "but 
I  bet  you  money  no  bunch  of  Chihuahua  Greasers 
can  hide  twenty  thousand  sheep  in  my  back  yard 
and  me  not  know  it.  And  I  '11  bet  you  further  that 
I  can  find  every  one  of  them  sheep  and  have  'em 
movin'  before  twelve  o'clock,  noon." 

Having  crystallized  his  convictions  into  this  sport- 
ing proposition  the  rodeo  boss  left  the  wilderness  of 
tracks  and  headed  due  south,  riding  fast  until  he  was 
clear  of  sheep  signs. 

"Now  here  's  where  I  cut  all  seven  trails,"  he  re- 
marked to  his  partner.  "I  happen  to  know  where  this 
sheep  outfit  is  headin'  for."  With  which  enigmatic 
remark  he  jerked  a  thumb  toward  Hidden  Water  and 
circled  to  the  west  and  north.  Not  half  an  hour  later 
he  picked  up  a  fresh  trail,  a  broad  path  stamped 
hard  by  thousands  of  feet,  and  spurring  recklessly 
along  it  until  he  sighted  the  herd  he  plunged  helter- 
skelter  into  their  midst,  where  they  were  packed  like 
sardines  in  the  broad  pocket  of  a  dry  wash. 

"Hey  there!  Whoopee  —  hep  —  hep!"  he  yelled, 
ploughing  his  way  into  the  pack;  and  Hardy  swing- 
ing quickly  around  the  flank,  rushed  the  ruck  of  them 
forward  in  his  wake.  Upon  the  brow  of  the  hill 
the  boss  herder  and  his  helpers  brandished  their  car- 
bines and  shouted,  but  their  words  were  drowned  in 

[336] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

the  blare  and  bray  which  rose  from  below.  Shoot 
they  dared  not,  for  it  meant  the  beginning  of  a 
bloody  feud,  and  their  warnings  were  unheeded  in 
the  melee.  The  herd  was  far  up  the  wash  and  gal- 
loping wildly  toward  the  north  before  the  frantic 
Mexicans  could  catch  up  with  it  on  foot,  and  even 
then  they  could  do  nothing  but  run  along  the  wings 
to  save  themselves  from  a  "cut."  More  than  once, 
in  the  night-time,  the  outraged  cowmen  of  the  Four 
Peaks  country  had  thus  dashed  through  their  bands, 
scattering  them  to  the  wolves  anil  the  coyotes,  de- 
stroying a  year's  increase  in  a  night,  while  the  herders, 
with  visions  of  shap  lessons  before  them,  fired 
perfunctory  rifle  shots  at  the  moon.  It  was  a  form 
of  reprisal  that  they  liked  least  of  all,  for  it  meant  a 
cut,  and  a  cut  meant  sheep  wandering  aimlessly  with- 
out a  master  until  they  became  coyote  bait  —  at  the 
rate  of  five  dollars  a  head. 

The  padron  was  a  kind  man  and  called  them  corn- 
padres,  when  he  was  pleased,  but  if  one  of  them  suf- 
fered a  cut  he  cursed,  and  fired  him,  and  made  him 
walk  back  to  town.  Hence  when  Chico  and  Grande 
suddenly  gave  over  their  drive  and  rode  away  to  the 
northwest  the  Mexican  herders  devoted  all  their  at- 
tention to  keeping  the  herd  together,  without  trying 
to  make  any  gun  plays.  And  when  the  stampede 
was  abated  and  still  no  help  came  they  drifted  their 

22  [337] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sheep  steadily  to  the  north,  leaving  the  camp  rustlers 
to  bring  up  the  impedimenta  as  best  they  could. 
Jasper  Swope  had  promised  to  protect  them  whenever 
they  blew  their  horns,  but  it  was  two  days  since  they 
had  seen  him,  and  the  two  Americanos  had  harried 
them  like  hawks. 

Never  had  armed  men  so  lacked  a  leader  as  on  that 
day.  Their  orders  were  to  shoot  only  in  self-defence; 
for  a  war  was  the  last  thing  which  the  Swope 
brothers  wanted,  with  their  entire  fortunes  at  stake, 
and  no  show  of  weapons  could  daunt  the  ruthless 
Grande  and  Chico.  All  the  morning  the  cow  horns 
bellowed  and  blared  as,  sweating  and  swinging  their 
Jiondas,  the  stern-eyed  Americanos  rushed  band  after 
band  away.  Not  a  word  was  passed  —  no  threats, 
no  commands,  no  warnings  for  the  future,  but  like 
avenging  devils  they  galloped  from  one  herd  to  the 
other  and  back  again,  shoving  them  forward  relent- 
lessly, even  in  the  heat  of  noon.  At  evening 
the  seven  bands,  hopelessly  mixed  and  mingled  in  the 
panic,  were  halfway  through  the  long  pass,  and 
the  herders  were  white  with  dust  and  running.  But 
not  until  dusk  gathered  in  the  valleys  did  Creede  rein 
in  his  lathered  horse  and  turn  grimly  back  to  camp. 

His  face  was  white  and  caked  with  dust,  the  dirt 
lay  clotted  in  his  beard,  and  only  the  whites  of 
his  eyes,  rolling  and  sanguinary,  gave  evidence  of  his 

[338] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

humanity;  his  shirt,  half  torn  from  his  body  by  plun- 
ging through  the  cat-claws,  hung  limp  and  heavy  with 
sweat;  and  the  look  of  him  was  that  of  a  madman, 
beside  himself  with  rage.  The  dirt,  the  sweat,  the 
grime,  were  as  heavy  on  Hardy,  and  his  eyes  rolled 
like  a  negro's  beneath  the  mask  of  dust,  but  weariness 
had  overcome  his  madness  and  he  leaned  forward 
upon  the  horn.  They  glanced  at  each  other  indiffer- 
ently and  then  slumped  down  to  endure  the  long  ten 
miles  which  lay  between  them  and  home.  It  had  been 
a  stern  fight  and  the  excitement  had  lulled  their 
hunger,  but  now  the  old,  slow  pang  gnawed  at  their 
vitals  and  they  rolled  like  drunkards  in  the  saddle. 

It  was  a  clear,  velvety  night,  and  still,  after  the 
wind  of  the  day.  Their  horses  jogged  dumbly  along, 
throwing  up  their  heads  at  every  step  from  weariness, 
and  the  noises  of  the  night  fell  dully  upon  their 
jaded  ears.  But  just  as  they  turned  into  Carrizo 
Creek  Canon  Creede  suddenly  reined  in  old  Bat 
Wings  and  held  up  his  hand  to  Hardy. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  he  asked,  still  listening. 
"There!  Didn't  you  hear  that  gun  go  off?  Well, 
I  did  —  and  it  was  a  thirty-thirty,  too,  over  there 
toward  the  Pocket." 

"Those  herders  are  always  shooting  away  their  am- 
munition," said  Hardy  peevishly.  "Come  on,  let 's 
get  back  to  camp." 

[339] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"They  don't  shoot  in  the  night-time,  though/'  grum- 
bled Creede,  leading  off  again.  "I  '11  bet  ye  some 
of  them  Greasers  has  seen  a  ghost.  Say,"  he  cried, 
"the  boys  may  be  out  doin'  some  night  ridin'!" 

But  when  they  rode  into  camp  every  man  was  in 
his  blankets. 

"Hey,  what 's  all  that  shootin'  goin'  on  over  there?" 
he  called,  waking  up  the  entire  outfit  in  bis  excite- 
ment. 

"Sheepmen,"  responded  some  sleeper  briefly. 

"Cleanin'  their  guns,  mebbe,"  suggested  another, 
yawning.  "Did  you  move  'em,  Jeff?" 

"You  betcher  neck!"  replied  Creede  promptly, 
"and  I  'm  goin'  back  in  the  mornin',  too." 

The  morning  turned  black,  and  flushed  rosy,  and 
fell  black  again,  but  for  once  the  merciless  driver  of 
men  slept  on,  for  he  was  over-weary.  It  was  a  noise, 
far  away,  plaintive,  insistent,  which  finally  brought 
him  to  his  feet  —  the  bleating  of  ewes  to  lambs,  of 
lambs  to  mothers,  of  wethers  to  their  fellows,  beau- 
tiful in  itself  as  the  great  elemental  sounds  of  the 
earth,  the  abysmal  roarings  of  winds  and  waves  and 
waterfalls,  but  to  the  cowman  hateful  as  the  clamors 
of  hell.  As  Creede  stood  in  his  blankets,  the  salt 
sweat  of  yesterday  still  in  his  eyes,  and  that  accursed 
blat  in  his  ears,  his  nerves  gave  way  suddenly,  and  he 

[340] 


CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

began  to  rave.  As  the  discordant  babel  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  his  passion  rose  up  like  a  storm  that  has 
been  long  brewing,  his  eyes  burned,  his  dirty  face 
turned  ghastly.  Grabbing  up  his  six-shooter  he  stood 
like  a  prophet  of  destruction  calling  down  the  wratE 
of  God  Himself,  if  there  was  a  God,  upon  the  head 
of  every  sheepman.  But  even  as  he  cursed  the 
first  dirty  brown  wave  spewed  in  over  the  ridge  and 
swept  down  upon  their  valley.  Then  in  a  moment 
his  madness  overcame  him  and,  raising  his  heavjr 
pistol,  he  emptied  it  against  them  defiantly,  while  the 
resounding  cliffs  took  up  his  wrath  and  hurled  it 
back.  A  herder  with  his  rifle  leapt  up  on  a  distant 
rock  and  looked  toward  their  camp,  and  at  the  sight 
the  black  anger  of  Jeff's  father  came  upon  him,  filling 
him  with  the  lust  to  kill. 

He  rushed  into  the  house  and  came  out  with  a  high- 
power  rifle.  "You  will  stand  up  there  and  laugK 
at  me,  will  you?"  he  said,  deliberately  raising  the 
sights.  "You—" 

He  rested  the  rifle  against  one  of  the  ramada  posts, 
and  caught  his  breath  to  aim,  while  the  cowmen  re- 
garded him  cynically,  yet  with  a  cold  speculation  in 
their  eyes.  Hardy  alone  sprang  forward  to  spoil 
his  aim,  and  for  a  minute  they  bandied  words  like 
pistol  shots  as  they  struggled  for  the  gun.  Then 

[341] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

with  a  last  wailing  curse,  the  big  cowboy  snapped 
the  cartridge  out  of  his  rifle  and  handed  it  over  to 
Ills  partner. 

"You're  right,"  he  said,  "let  the  dastard  live. 
But  if  I  ever  git  another  chanst  at  Jasp  Swope 
I  '11  kill  him,  if  I  swing  for  it!  He  's  the  boy  I  'm 
lookin'  for,  but  you  see  how  he  dodges  me?  I  Ve 
fbeen  movin'  his  sheep  for  two  days !  He  's  afraid 
>of  me  —  he  's  afraid  to  come  out  and  fight  me  like 
a  man !  But  I  '11  git  'im  —  I  '11  git  'im  yet !" 

"All  right,"  said  Hardy  soothingly,  "you  can  do 
it,  for  all  of  me.  But  don't  go  to  shooting  Mexicans 
off  of  rocks  as  if  they  were  turkey  buzzards  —  that 's 
what  gets  people  into  the  pen.  Now,  you  just  take 
my  advice  for  once  and  wash  some  of  that  dirt  off 
your  face.  You  're  locoed,  man  —  you  're  not  a 
human  being  —  and  you  won't  be  until  you  wash  up 
;and  get  your  belly  full." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  sat  down  to  breakfast, 
the  burly  fighting  animal  and  the  man  who  had 
taught  him  reason;  and  as  they  ate  the  fierce  anger 
of  the  cowboy  passed  away  like  mists  before  the 
.morning  sun.  He  heaped  his  plate  up  high  and 
^emptied  it  again,  drinking  coffee  from  his  big  cup, 
and  as  if  ashamed  of  his  brutishness  he  began  forth- 
with to  lay  out  a  campaign  of  peace.  With  sheep 
scurrying  in  every  direction  across  the  range  in  the 

[342] 


CHICO    AND     GRANDE 

great  drive  that  was  now  on  it  was  no  use  to  try  to 
gather  cows.  What  they  had  they  could  day-herd 
and  the  rest  would  have  to  wait.  The  thing  to  do 
now  was  to  protect  the  feed  around  the  water,  so 
that  the  cattle  would  not  have  to  travel  so  far  in  the 
heat  of  summer.  No  objection  being  offered  he 
gave  each  man  a  watercourse  to  patrol,  sending  one 
over  into  the  Pocket  to  see  what  had  happened  to 
Eill  Johnson;  and  then,  with  his  gun  packed  in  his 
bed,  he  started  back  with  Hardy  to  watch  over  Hidden 
Water. 

The  sun  was  well  up  as  they  topped  the  high  ridge ; 
and  the  mesa,  though  ploughed  through  and  through 
by  the  trails  of  the  hurrying  sheep,  still  shimmered 
in  its  deceptive  green.  Not  for  a  month  had  there 
been  a  cloud  in  the  sky  and  the  grass  on  the  barren 
places  was  already  withering  in  the  heat,  yet  in  the 
distance  the  greasewood  and  the  polo  verdes  and 
giant  cactus  blended  into  one  mighty  sheet  of  ver- 
dure. Only  on  the  ground  where  the  feed  should  be 
were  there  signs  of  the  imminent  drought;  and  where 
the  sheep  had  crossed  the  ground  lay  hard  and  baked 
or  scuffled  into  dust.  In  the  presence  of  those  swift 
destroyers  the  dreaded  ano  seco  had  crept  in  upon 
them  unnoticed,  but  soon  it  would  scourge  the  land 
with  heat  and  dust  and  failing  waters,  and  cattle  low- 
ing to  be  fed.  And  there  before  their  eyes,  clipping 

[343] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

i 

down  the  precious  grass,  tearing  up  the  tender 
plants,  shearing  away  the  browse,  moved  the  sheep; 
army  after  army,  phalanx  and  cohort,  drifting  for- 
ward irresistibly,  each  in  its  cloud  of  dust.  For  a 
minute  the  two  men  sat  gazing  hopelessly;  then 
Creede  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle  and  sighed. 

"Well,"  he  observed  philosophically,  "they  're  mov- 
in',  anyhow." 

They  rode  down  the  long  slope  and,  mounting  a 
low  roll,  paused  again  apathetically  to  watch  a  band 
of  sheep  below. 

"Say,"  exclaimed  Creede,  his  eyes  beginning  to 
burn,  "d'ye  notice  how  them  sheep  are  travellin'? 
And  look  at  them  other  bands  back  yonder!  By 
Joe !"  he  cried,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  "we  've  got  'em 
goin'!  Look  at  the  dust  out  through  the  pass, 
and  clean  to  Hell's  Hip  Pocket.  They  're  hikin', 
boy,  they  're  hittin'  it  up  for  The  Rolls !  But  what 
in  the  world  has  struck  'em?" 

He  stood  up  straight  in  his  saddle,  swinging  his 
head  from  east  to  west,  but  no  band  of  horsemen  met 
his  eye.  He  looked  again  at  the  flock  below  him  — 
the  goats,  forever  in  the  lead,  heading  straight  for 
the  western  pass ;  the  herders  swinging  their  carbines 
upon  the  drag  —  and  seemed  to  study  upon  the  mira- 
cle. 


CHICO    AND    GRANDE 

"Have  you  got  any  money  to  spare,  Rufe?"  he  in- 
quired quietly. 

"Sure,"  responded  Hardy. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Creede  deliberately,  "I  'd  like 
to  make  you  a  sporting  proposition.  I  '11  bet  you 
forty  dollars  to  the  price  of  a  drink  that  old  Bill 
Johnson  has  been  shootin'  up  their  camps.  Will  you 
go  me?  All  right,  and  I  '11  make  you  a  little  side 
bet:  I'll  bet  you  any  money  that  Jim  Swope  has 
lost  some  sheep!" 

He  spurred  his  horse  recklessly  down  the  hill, 
grinning,  and  at  the  clatter  of  rocks  the  fearful 
herders  jumped  forward  and  raised  a  great  clamor 
behind  their  sheep,  whistling  and  clubbing  their  guns, 
but  the  heart  of  the  monster  Grande  was  no  longer 
turned  to  wrath.  He  laughed  and  called  out  to 
them,  leaping  his  horse  playfully  over  washouts  and 
waving  his  black  hat. 

"Cuidado,  hombres"  he  shouted,  "be  careful  — 
do  not  hurry  —  look  at  the  nice  grass!"  But  de- 
spite this  friendly  admonition  the  herders  still  yelled 
and  whistled  at  their  sheep,  jabbing  them  spitefully 
with  the  sharp  muzzles  of  their  rifles  until  at  last,  all 
riot  and  confusion,  they  fled  away  bleating  into  the 
west. 


[345] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BAD   BLOOD 

sheep  were  on  the  run,  drifting  across 
Bronco  Mesa  as  if  the  devil  was  after  them,  and 
Creede  could  hardly  stay  on  his  horse  from  laughing 
—  but  when  he  drew  near  to  Hidden  Water  his  face 
changed.  There  was  a  fresh  sheep  trail  in  the  canon 
and  it  led  away  from  the  ranch.  He  spurred  for- 
ward like  the  wind,  his  eyes  upon  the  tracks,  and 
when  he  came  in  sight  of  the  house  he  threw  down 
his  hat  and  swore.  Of  all  the  God-forsaken  places 
in  Arizona,  the  Dos  S  Ranch  was  the  worst.  The 
earth  lay  bare  and  desolate  before  it;  the  woodpile 
had  disappeared;  the  bucket  was  thrown  down  the 
well.  Never  had  the  flat,  mud  buildings  seemed  so 
deserted  or  Tommy  so  tragic  in  his  welcome.  The 
pasture  gate  was  down  and  even  that  holy  of  holies, 
the  branding  corral,  stunk  of  sheep.  Only  the  pad- 
locked house  had  been  respected,  and  that  perforce, 
since  nothing  short  of  a  sledgehammer  could  break  its 
welded  chain. 

Unfastening  the  battered  door  they  entered  the 
living-room  which  once  had  been  all  light  and  laugh- 

[346] 


BAD    BLOOD 

ter.  There  lay  the  dishes  all  clean  and  orderly  ODS 
the  table,  the  floors  swept,  the  beds  made,  some 
withered  flowers  on  Hardy's  desk. 

"Huh,"  grunted  Creede,  looking  it  over  coldly, 
"we  're  on  the  bum,  all  right,  all  right,  now.  How 
long  since  they  went  away?" 

"  'Bout  a  year,"  replied  Hardy,  and  his  partner  did 
not  contradict  him. 

They  cooked  a  hasty  meal  and  ate  it,  putting  the 
scraps  in  the  frying-pan  for  Tommy. 

"Go  to  it,  Tom,"  said  Creede,  smiling  wistfully  as 
the  cat  lapped  away  at  the  grease.  "He  never  could 
git  used  to  them  skirts  rustlin'  round  here,  could  he?7*" 
And  then  there  was  a  long  silence. 

Tommy  sat  up  and  washed  his  face  contentedly, 
peering  about  with  intent  yellow  eyes  and  sniffing: 
at  the  countless  odors  with  which  his  world  was  filled 
—  then  suddenly  with  a  low  whining  growl  he  lashed 
across  the  room  like  a  tiger  and  leapt  up  into  his  cat 
hole.  This  was  a  narrow  tunnel,  punched  througH 
the  adobe  wall  near  the  door  and  boxed  in  with  a 
projecting  cribbing  to  keep  out  the  snakes  and 
skunks.  Through  it  when  his  protectors  were  away 
he  could  escape  the  rush  of  pursuing  coyotes,  or 
sally  forth  with  equal  ferocity  when  sheep  dogs  were 
about.  He  peered  out  of  his  porthole  for  a  moment, 
warily,  then  his  stump  tail  began  to  twitch,  he  worked 

[347] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

his  hind  claws  into  the  wood,  and  leapt.  A  yelp  of 
terror  from  the  ramada  heralded  his  success  and 
Creede  ran  like  a  boy  to  look. 

"He  's    jumped    one,    by    Joe!"    he    exclaimed. 
/'What  did  I  tell  ye  —  that  cat  is  a  holy  terror  on 
Bogs!" 

The  dog  in  question  —  a  slinking,  dispirited  cur  — 
wagged  its  tail  apologetically  from  a  distance,  shak- 
ing its  bloody  ears,  while  Tommy  swelled  and  hissed 
viciously  at  him  from  his  stronghold.  It  was  a 
^lieep  dog,  part  collie,  part  shepherd,  and  the  rest 
plain  yellow  —  a  friendly  little  dog,  too,  and  hungry. 
But  the  heart  of  Creede,  ordinarily  so  tender,  was 
hardened  by  his  disasters. 

"Git  out  of  here!"  he  commanded  roughly.  "Git, 
you  yap,  or  1 11  burn  you  up  with  a  bullet ! 

"This  is  what  comes  of  leavin'  your  gun  off,"  he 
grumbled,  as  he  unbound  his  bed  and  grabbed  up  his 
pistol.  But  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  open  to  shoot, 
his  barbarity  was  checked  by  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and, 
looking  up,  he  saw  Jasper  Swope  on  his  big  black 
mule,  ambling  truculently  in  across  the  open. 

"Hyar!"  he  shouted,  shaking  his  fist  angrily,  "don't 
you  shoot  my  dog,  you  —  or  I  '11  be  the  death  of  ye !" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  responded  Creede,  bristling 
hack  at  him.  "Keep  the  blame  pup  away,  then  — 
and  keep  that  other  dog  away,  too,  or  my  cat  '11  eat 

[348] 


BAD    BLOOD 

'im  up!  Well,  I  notice  you  took  the  occasion  to 
come  down  and  sheep  me  out,"  he  observed,  as 
Swope  pulled  up  tef ore  the  door. 

"I  did  not,"  retorted  the  sheepman  promptly,  but 
grinning  nevertheless  at  the  damage,  "but  I  see  some 
other  feller  has  though,  and  saved  me  the  trouble." 
He  ran  his  eye  approvingly  over  the  devastated  home- 
stead; and  then,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  he  plunged 
Suddenly  into  his  set  speech. 

"I've  took  a  lot  off'n  you,  Jeff  Creede,"  he 
shouted,  swinging  his  arms  wildly,  "but  I  Ve  got  a 
bellyful  of  this  night  work!  And  I  come  down  to 
tell  you  that  next  time  you  shoot  up  one  of  my  camps 
there '11  be  trouble!" 

"I  never  shot  up  your  old  camp,"  growled  Creede, 
"nor  any  other  camp.  I  'm  dam'  glad  to  hear  that 
somebody  else  did  though,"  he  added  vindictively, 
"and  I  hope  to  God  he  fixed  you  good  and  proper. 
Now  what  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Swope?"  he  in- 
quired, thrusting  out  his  chin.  "I  suppose  you  must 
be  hurryin'  on,  of  course." 

"No!"  cried  Swope,  slapping  his  saddle  horn  vehe- 
mently. "I  come  down  here  to  git  some  satisfaction 
out  of  you!  My  sheep  has  been  killed  and  my  men 
has  been  intimidated  on  this  here  public  range,  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  right  now,  Mr.  Creede,  that  this 
funny  business  has  got  to  stop !" 

[349] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Well,  don't  choke!"  said  the  cowman,  fingering 
his  gun  coldly.  "Go  ahead  and  stop  it,  why  don't 
you?" 

He  paused,  a  set  smile  on  his  lips,  and  for  a  moment 
their  eyes  met  in  the  baleful  glare  which  rival 
wolves,  the  leaders  of  their  packs,  confer  upon  each 
other.  Then  Hardy  stepped  out  into  the  open, 
holding  up  his  hand  for  peace. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Swope,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Jeff  hasn't  shot  up  any  camps  —  he  hasn't  even 
packed  a  gun  for  the  last  three  days." 

''Oh,  he  hain't,  hey?"  sneered  the  sheepman,  show- 
ing his  jagged  teeth.  "He  seems  to  have  one  now.", 

"You  betcher  neck  I  have,"  cried  Creede,  flaring 
up  at  the  implication,  "and  if  you  're  lookin'  for 
trouble,  Jasp  Swope,  you  can  open  up  any  time." 

"W'y  what 's  the  matter  with  you?"  protested 
Swope  righteously.  "You  must  have  somethin'  on 
your  mind,  the  way  you  act." 

Then  without  waiting  for  a  reply  to  this  innuendo 
he  turned  his  attention  to  Hardy. 

"He  hain't  shot  up  any  camps,"  he  repeated, 
"ner  packed  a  gun  for  three  days,  hey?  Now  here  's 
where  I  prove  you  a  liar,  Mr.  Smarty.  I  seen  him 
with  my  own  eyes  take  six  shots  at  one  of  my  herders 
this  very  mornin' —  and  you  was  there!" 

He  punctuated  his  speech  by  successive  downward 

[350] 


BAD    BLOOD 

jabs  of  his  grimy  forefinger  as  if  he  were  stabbing 
his  adversary  to  the  heart,  and  Hardy  turned  faint 
and  sick  with  chagrin.  Never  had  he  hated  a  man 
as  he  hated  this  great,  overbearing  brute  before  him 
•. —  this  man-beast,  with  his  hairy  chest  and  freckled 
hands  that  clutched  at  him  like  an  ape's.  Something 
hidden,  a  demon  primordial  and  violent,  rose  up  in 
him  against  this  crude  barbarian  with  his  bristling 
beard  and  gloating  pig  eyes,  and  he  forgot  every- 
thing but  his  own  rage  at  being  trapped. 

"You  lie!"  he  cried  passionately;  and  then  in  his 
anger  he  added  a  word  which  he  had  never  used,  a 
word  which  goes  deep  under  the  skin  and  makes  men 
fight. 

For  a  moment  the  sheepman  sat  staring,  astounded 
by  his  vehemence ;  but  before  he  could  move  the  sud- 
den silence  was  split  by  the  yelp  of  a  dog  —  a  wild, 
gibbering  yelp  that  made  them  jump  and  bristle  like 
hounds  that  are  assailed  from  behind  —  and,  min- 
gling stridently  with  it,  was  the  harsh  snarl  of  a  cat. 
There  was  a  swift  scramble  in  the  dust  by  the  door, 
an  oath  from  the  sheepman,  and  the  yellow  dog  dashed 
away  again,  with  Tommy  at  his  heels. 

Creede  was  the  first  man  to  regain  his  nerve  and, 
seeing  his  pet  triumphant,  he  let  out  a  whoop  of 
derisive  laughter. 

" Ah-hah-hah !"  he  hollered,  pointing  with  his  pistol 

[351] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

hand,  "look  at  that,  will  ye  — •  look  at  'im  —  yee-pah 
<• —  go  after  'im,  Tommy  —  we  '11  show  the  — 

The  fighting  blood  of  the  sheepman  sided  in  as 
quickly  with  his  dog. 

"I  '11  kill  that  dam'  cat!"  he  yelled,  swinging  down 
from  his  saddle,  "if  you  don't  let  up!  Hey,  Nip! 
Sick  ?im!"  He  turned  and  motioned  to  his  other 
dog,  which  had  been  standing  dumbly  by,  and  in- 
stantly he  joined  in  the  chase.  "Sick  'em,  boy, 
sick  *emf  he  bellowed,  urging  him  on,  and  before 
Creede  could  get  his  face  straight  the  long,  rangy 
brindle  had  dashed  up  from  behind  and  seized 
Tommy  by  the  back. 

"Git  out  o'  that!"  thundered  the  cowman;  and 
then,  without  waiting  on  words,  he  threw  his  gun 
down  on  the  dog  and  fired. 

"Here  —  none  of  that,  now!"  shouted  Swope, 
whipping  out  his  own  pistol,  and  as  he  leapt  for- 
ward he  held  it  out  before  him  like  a  sabre,  pointed 
straight  for  the  cowman's  ribs.  His  intentions  may 
have  been  of  the  best,  but  Hardy  did  not  wait  to  see. 
The  brindle  dog  let  out  a  surprised  yelp  and  dropped. 
Before  Creede  could  turn  to  meet  his  enemy  his  part- 
ner leapt  in  between  them  and  with  a  swift  blow  from 
the  shoulder,  struck  the  sheepman  to  the  ground. 

It  was  a  fearful  blow,  such  as  men  deal  in  anger 
without  measuring  their  strength  or  the  cost,  and 

[352] 


BAD    BLOOD 

it  landed  on  his  jaw.  Creede  had  seen  men  slugged 
before,  in  saloon  rows  and  the  rough  fights  that 
take  place  around  a  town,  but  never  had  he  seen  a 
single  blow  suffice  —  the  man's  head  go  back,  his 
knees  weaken,  and  his  whole  body  collapse  as  if  he 
had  been  shot.  If  he  had  been  felled  like  a  bull  in 
the  shambles  that  goes  down  in  spite  of  his  great 
strength,  Jasper  Swope  could  not  have  been  more 
completely  stunned.  He  lay  sprawling,  his  legs 
turned  under  him,  and  the  hand  that  grasped  the 
six-shooter  relaxed  slowly  and  tumbled  it  into  the 
dust. 

For  a  minute  the  two  partners  stood  staring  at 
each  other,  the  one  still  planted  firmly  on  his  feet 
like  a  boxer,  the  other  with  his  smoking  pistol  in  his 
hand. 

"By  Joe,  boy,"  said  Creede  slowly,  "y°u  was  just 
in  time  that  trip."  He  stepped  forward  and  laid 
the  fallen  man  out  on  his  back,  passing  his  gun  up 
to  Hardy  as  he  did  so. 

"I  wonder  if  you  killed  him,"  he  muttered,  feel- 
ing Jasp's  bull  neck;  and  then,  as  Hardy  ran  for 
some  water,  he  remembered  Tommy.  But  there  was 
no  Tommy  —  only  a  little  heap  of  fur  lying  very 
still  out  in  the  open. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  and  leaving  the  man  he  ran 
out  and  knelt  down  beside  it. 

23  [353] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Pussy!"  he  whispered,  feeling  hopelessly  for  his 
heart;  and  then,  gathering  the  forlorn  little  wisp  of 
fur  in  his  arms,  he  hurried  into  the  house  without  a 
word. 

He  was  still  in  hiding  when  Jasper  Swope  came 
to  and  sat  up,  his  hair  drenched  with  water  and 
matted  with  dirt.  Staring  doubtfully  at  the  set 
face  of  Hardy  he  staggered  to  his  feet;  then  the 
memory  of  the  fight  came  back  to  him  and  he  glared 
at  him  with  a  drunkard's  insolence. 

"Where 's  my  gun?"  he  demanded,  suddenly 
clapping  his  hand  upon  the  empty  holster. 

"I  '11  take  care  of  that  for  you,"  answered  Hardy 
pointedly.  "Now  you  pile  onto  that  mule  of  yours 
.and  pull  your  freight,  will  you?"  He  led  the  black 
mule  up  close  and  boosted  its  master  into  the  saddle, 
but  Swope  was  not  content. 

"Where's  that  dastard,  Jeff  Creede?"  he  de- 
manded. "Well,  I  wanter  see  him,  that 's  all.  And 
say,  Mr.  Smart  Alec,  I  want  that  gun,  too,  see?" 

"Well,  you  won't  get  it,"  said  Hardy. 

"I  will  that,"  declared  Swope,  "  'nd  I  '11  git  you, 
too,  Willie,  before  I  git  through  with  you.  I  Ve  had 
enough  of  this  monkey  business.  Now  gimme  that 
gun,  I  tell  ye,  or  I  '11  come  back  with  more  of  'em  and 
take  it!" 

He  raised  his  voice  to  a  roar,  muffled  to  a  beast-like 

[354] 


BAD    BLOOD 

hoarseness  by  his  swollen  jaws,  and  the  ramada  rever- 
berated like  a  cavern  as  he  bellowed  out  his  challenge. 
Then  the  door  was  snatched  violently  open  and  Jef- 
ferson Creede  stepped  forth,  looking  black  as  hell 
itself.  In  one  hand  he  held  the  sheepman's  pistol 
and  in  the  other  his  own. 

"Here!"  he  said,  and  striding  forward  he  thrust 
Swope's  gun  into  his  hand.  "It 's  loaded,  too,"  he 
added.  "Now,  you  —  if  you  Ve  got  any  shootin'  to 
do,  go  to  it!" 

He  stepped  back  quickly  and  stood  ready,  his 
masterful  eyes  bent  upon  his  enemy  in  a  scowl  of 
unquenchable  hate.  Once  before  they  had  faced  each 
other,  waiting  for  that  mysterious  psychic  prompt- 
ing without  which  neither  man  nor  beast  can  begin 
a  fight,  and  Jim  had  stepped  in  between  —  but  Hardy 
stood  aside  without  a  word.  It  was  a  show-down  and, 
bulldog  fighter  though  he  was,  Jasper  Swope  weak-' 
ened.  The  anger  of  his  enemy  overcame  his  hostile 
spirit  without  a  blow,  and  he  turned  his  pistol  away. 

"That 's  all  I  wanted,"  he  said,  shoving  the  gun 
sullenly  into  its  holster.  "They's  two  of  you? 
and—" 

"And  you  're  afraid,"  put  in  Creede  promptly. 
He  stood  gazing  at  the  downcast  sheepman,  his  lip 
curling  contemptuously. 

"I  Ve  never  seen  a  sheepman  yet,"  he  said,  "that 

[355] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

would  fight.  You  Ve  listened  to  that  blat  until  it  5S 
a  part  of  ye ;  you  Ve  run  with  them  Mexicans  until 
you're  kin  to  'em;  you're  a  coward,  Jasp  Swope, 
and  I  always  knowed  it."  He  paused  again,  his 
eyes  glowing  with  the  hatred  that  had  overmastered 
his  being.  "My  God,"  he  said,  "if  I  could  only  git 
you  to  fight  to-day  I  'd  give  everything  I  Ve  got 
left!" 

The  sheepman's  gaze  was  becoming  furtive  as  he 
watched  them.  He  glanced  sidewise,  edging  away 
from  the  door;  then,  pricking  his  mule  with  his  spurs, 
he  galloped  madly  away,  ducking  his  head  at  every 
jump  as  if  he  feared  a  shot. 

"Look  at  the  cowardly  dastard!"  sneered  Creede 
bitterly.  "D'  ye  know  what  he  would  do  if  that  was 
me  ?  He  'd  shoot  me  in  the  back.  Ah,  God  A'mighty, 
and  that  dog  of  his  got  Tommy  before  I  could  pull 
a  gun!  Rufe,  I  could  kill  every  sheepman  in  the 
Four  Peaks  for  this  —  every  dam'  one  of  'em  — 
and  the  first  dog  that  comes  in  sight  of  this  ranch  will 
stop  a  thirty-thirty."  He  stopped  and  turned  away, 
cursing  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"God  A'mighty,"  he  moaned,  "I  can't  Keeg 
noihin*!"  And  stumbling  back  into  the  house  he 
slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

A  gloom  settled  down  over  the  place,  a  gloom  that 
lasted  for  days.  The  cowboys  came  back  from  driy- 

[356] 


SAD   BLOOD  , 

ing  the  town  herd  and,  going  up  on  the  mesa,  they; 
gathered  a  few  head  more.  Then  the  heat  set  in 
before  its  time  and  the  work  stopped  short.  For  the 
steer  that  is  roped  and  busted  in  the  hot  weather  dies 
suddenly  at  the  water;  the  flies  buzz  about  the  ears 
of  the  new-marked  calves  and  poison  them,  and  the 
mother  cows  grow  gaunt  and  thin  from  overheating. 
Not  until  the  long  Summer  had  passed  could  the  rid- 
ing continue;  the  steers  must  be  left  to  feed  down 
the  sheeped-out  range ;  the  little  calves  must  run  for 
sleepers  until  the  fall  rodeo.  Sheep  and  the  drought 
had  come  together,  and  the  round-up  was  a  failure. 
Likewise  the  cowmen  were  broke. 

As  they  gathered  about  the  fire  on  that  last  night 
it  was  a  silent  company  —  the  rodeo  boss  the  gloom- 
iest of  them  all.  Not  since  the  death  of  Tommy  had 
his  eyes  twinkled  with  the  old  mischief;  he  had  no 
bets  to  offer,  no  news  to  volunteer;  a  dull,  sombre 
abstraction  lay  upon  him  like  a  pall.  Only  when  Bill 
Lightfoot  spoke  did  he  look  up,  and  then  with  a  set 
sneer,  growing  daily  more  saturnine.  The  world 
was  dark  to  Creede  and  Bill's  fresh  remarks  jarred 
on  him  —  but  Bill  himself  was  happy.  He  was  of  the 
kind  that  runs  by  opposites,  taking  their  troubles 
with  hilarity  under  the  impression  that  they  are 
philosophers.  His  pretext  for  this  present  happi- 
ness was  a  professed  interview  with  Kitty  Bonnair 

[357] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

on  the  evening  that  the  town  herd  pulled  into 
Moreno's.  What  had  happened  at  this  interview 
was  a  secret,  of  course,  but  it  made  Bill  happy;  and 
the  more  morose  and  ugly  Jeff  became  about  it  the 
more  it  pleased  Lightfoot  to  be  gay.  He  sat  on  a 
b'ox  that  night  and  sang  risque  ditties,  his  enormous 
Colt's  revolver  dangling  bravely  at  his  hip;  and  at 
last,  casting  his  weather  eye  upon  Creede,  he  began 
a  certain  song. 

"Oh,  my  little  girl,  she  lives  in  the  town  — " 

And  then  he  stopped. 

"Bill,"  said  the  rodeo  boss  feelingly,  "you  make 
me  tired." 

"Lay  down  an'  you  '11  git  rested,  then,"  suggested 
Lightfoot. 

"A  toodle  Iwti,  a  toodle  link,  a  too-oodle  a  day." 

"I  '11  lay  you  down  in  a  minute,  if  you  don't  shut 
lip,"  remarked  Creede,  throwing  away  his  cigarette. 
"The  hell  you  say,"  commented  Lightfoot  airily. 

"And  last  time  I  seen  her  she  ast  me  to  come  down." 

At  this  raw  bit  of  improvisation  the  boss  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet  and  stalked  away  from  temptation. 

"And  if  anybody  sees  her  you  '11  know  her  by  this  sign," 
Chanted  the  cowboy,  switching  to  an  out-and-out 

[358] 


BAD    BLOOD 

bad  one;  and  then,  swaying  his  body  on  his  cracked 
box,  he  plunged  unctuously  into  the  chorus. 

"She  *s  got  a  dark  and  rolling  eye,  boys; 
She  '$  got  a  dark  and  rollmg  eye" 

He  stopped  there  and  leapt  to  his  feet  anxiously. 
The  mighty  bulk  of  the  rodeo  boss  came  plunging 
back  at  him  through  the  darkness;  his  bruising  fist 
shot  out  and  the  frontier  troubadour  went  sprawling 
among  the  pack  saddles. 

It  was  the  first  time  Creede  had  ever  struck  one  of 
his  own  kind, —  men  with  guns  were  considered  dan- 
gerous,—  but  this  time  he  laid  on  unmercifully. 

"You  Ve  had  that  comin'  to  you  for  quite  a  while, 
Bill  Lightfoot,"  he  said,  striking  Bill's  ineffectual 
gun  aside,  "and  more  too.  Now  maybe  you  '11  keep 
shut  about  'your  girl' !" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  after  administering  this 
rebuke  and  went  to  the  house,  leaving  his  enemy 
prostrate  in  the  dirt. 

"The  big,  hulkin'  brute,"  blubbered  Lightfoot,  sit- 
ting up  and  aggrievedly  feeling  of  his  front  teeth, 
"jumpin'  on  a  little  feller  like  me  —  an'  he  never 
give  me  no  warnin',  neither.  You  jest  wait,  I  '11  — " 

"Aw,  shut  up!"  growled  Old  Man  Reavis,  whose 
soul  had  long  been  harrowed  by  Lightfoot's  festive 
ways.  "He  give  you  plenty  of  warnin',  if  you  'd 

[359]  * 


HIDDEN    WATER 

only  listen.  Some  people  have  to  swallow  a  few  front 
teeth  before  they  kin  learn  anythin'." 

"Well,  what  call  did  he  have  to  jump  on  me 
like  that?"  protested  Lightfoot.  "I  wasn't  doin' 
nothinV 

"No,  no  thin'  but  singin'  bawdy  songs  about  his 
girl,"  sneered  Reavis  sarcastically. 

"His  girl,  rats!"  retorted  the  cowboy,  vainglorious 
even  in  defeat,  "she  's  my  girl,  if  she  's  anybody's!" 

"Well,  about  your  girl  then,  you  dirty  brute!" 
snarled  the  old  man,  suddenly  assuming  a  high  moral 
plane  for  his  utter  annihilation.  "You  're  a  dis- 
grace to  the  outfit,  Bill  Lightfoot,"  he  added,  with 
conviction.  "I  'm  ashamed  of  ye." 

"That 's  right,"  chimed  in  the  Clark  boys,  whose 
sensibilities  had  likewise  been  harassed;  and  with  all 
the  world  against  him  Bill  Lightfoot  retired  in  a  huff 
to  his  blankets.  So  the  rodeo  ended  as  it  had  begun, 
in  disaster,  bickering,  and  bad  blood,  and  no  man 
rightly  knew  from  whence  their  misfortune  came. 
Perhaps  the  planets  in  their  spheres  had  cast  a  malign 
influence  upon  them,  or  maybe  the  bell  mare  had 
cast  a  shoe.  Anyhow  they  had  started  off  the 
wrong  foot  and,  whatever  the  cause,  the  times  were 
certainly  not  auspicious  for  matters  of  importance, 
love-making,  or  the  bringing  together  of  the  es- 
tranged. Let  whatsoever  high-priced  astrologer 

[360] 


BAD    BLOOD 

cast  his  horoscope  tor  good,  Saturn  was  swinging 
low  above  the  earth  and  dealing  especial  misery  to 
the  Four  Peaks ;  and  on  top  of  it  all  the  word  came 
that  old  Bill  Johnson,  after  shooting  up  the  sheep 
camps,  had  gone  crazy  and  taken  to  the  hills. 

For  a  week,  Creede  and  Hardy  dawdled  about  the 
place,  patching  up  the  gates  and  fences  and  cursing 
the  very  name  of  sheep.     A  spirit  of  unrest  hovered 
over  the  place,  a  brooding  silence  which  spoke  only^ 
of  Tommy  and  those  who  were  gone,  and  the  two' 
partners  eyed  each  other  furtively,  each  deep  in  his 
own  thoughts.    At  last  when  he  could  stand  it  no' 
longer  Creede  went  over  to  the  corner  and  dug  up 
his  money. 

"I  'm  goin'  to  town,"  he  said  briefly. 

"All  right,"  responded  Hardy;  and  then,  after 
meditating  a  while,  he  added:  "I  '11  send  down  some 
letters  by  you." 

Late  that  evening,  after  He  had  written  a  long 
letter  to  Lucy  and  a  short  one  to  his  father,  he  sat 
at  the  desk  where  he  had  found  their  letters,  and  his 
thoughts  turned  back  to  Kitty.  There  lay  the  little 
book  which  had  held  their  letters,  just  as  he  had  thrust 
it  aside.  He  picked  it  up,  idly,  and  glanced  at  the 
title-page:  "Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese."  How 
dim  and  far  away  it  all  seemed  now,  this  world  of 
the  poets  in  which  he  had  once  lived  and  dreamed, 

[361] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

where  sweetness  and  beauty  were  enshrined  as  twirl 
goddesses  of  light,  and  gentleness  brooded  over  all 
her  children.  What  a  world  that  had  been,  with  its 
graceful,  smiling  women,  its  refinements  of  thought 
and  speech,  its  aspirations  and  sympathies  —  and 
Kitty!  He  opened  the  book  slowly,  wondering  from 
whence  it  had  come,  and  from  the  deckled  leaves  a 
pressed  forget-me-not  fell  into  his  hand.  That  was 
all  —  there  was  no  mark,  no  word,  no  sign  but  this, 
and  as  he  gazed  his  numbed  mind  groped  through 
the  past  for  a  forget-me-not.  Ah  yes,  he  remem- 
bered! But  how  far  away  it  seemed  now,  the  bright 
morning  when  he  had  met  his  love  on  the  mountain 
peak  and  the  flowers  had  fallen  from  her  hair  —  and 
what  an  inferno  of  strife  and  turmoil  had  followed 
since!  He  opened  to  the  place  where  the  imprint 
of  the  dainty  flower  lay  and  read  reverently: 

"If  thou  must  love,  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

'I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her  way 
Of  speaking  gently — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day' — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be    changed,    or    change    for    thee — and    love,    so 

wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheek  dry — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
[362] 


BAD    BLOOD 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby  I 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternity." 

The  spell  of  the  words  laid  hold  upon  as  he  read 
and  he  turned  page  after  page,  following  the  t  cycle 
of  that  other  woman's  love  —  a  love  which  waited 
for  years  to  be  claimed  by  the  master  hand,  never 
faltering  to  the  end.  Then  impulsively  he  reached 
for  a  fair  sheet  of  paper  to  begin  a  letter  to  Kitty, 
a  letter  which  should  breathe  the  old  gentleness  and 
love,  yet  "for  love's  sake  only."  But  while  he  sat 
dreaming,  thinking  with  what  words  to  begin,  his 
partner  lounged  in,  and  Hardy  put  aside  his  pen 
and  waited,  while  the  big  man  hung  around  and 
fidgeted. 

"Well,  I  '11  be  in  town  to-morrer,"  he  said* 
drearily. 

"Aha,"  assented  Hardy. 

"What  ye  got  there?"  inquired  Creede,  after  a  long- 
silence.  He  picked  up  the  book,  griming  the  dainty 
pages  as  he  turned  them  with  his  rough  fingers, 
glancing  at  the  headings. 

"Um-huh,"  he  grunted,  "  'Sonnets  from  the  Por- 
tegees,'  eh?  I  never  thought  them  Dagos  could 
write  —  what  I  've  seen  of  'em  was  mostly  drivin* 
fish-wagons  or  swampin'  around  some  slaughter- 
house. How  does  she  go,  now,"  he  continued,  as 

[363] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

his  schooling  came  back  to  him,  "see  if  I  can  make 
sense  out  of  it."  He  bent  down  and  mumbled  over 
the  first  sonnet,  spelling  out  the  long  words  doubt- 
fully. 

"I  thought  once  how  The-o-crite-us  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-f  or  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And  as  I  mused  it  in  his  an — " 

"Well  say,  what 's  he  drivin'  at,  anyway?"  de- 
manded the  rugged  cowboy.  "Is  that  Dago  talk, 
or  is  he  jest  mixed  in  his  mind?  Perfectly  clear,  eh? 
Well,  maybe  so,  but  I  fail  to  see  it.  Wish  I  could 
git  aholt  of  some  good  po'try."  He  paused,  waiting 
for  Hardy  to  respond. 

"Say,"  he  said,  at  last,  "do  me  a  favor,  will  ye, 
Rufe?" 

The  tone  of  his  voice,  now  soft  and  diffident,  star- 
tled Hardy  out  of  his  dream. 

"Why  sure,  Jeff,"  he  said,  "if  I  can." 

"No,  no  'ifs'  and  Bands'  about  it!"  persisted  Creede. 
"A  lucky  feller  like  you  with  everythin'  comin'  his 
way  ought  to  be  able  to  say  'Yes'  once  in  a  while 
without  hangin'  a  pull-back  on  it." 

"Huh,"  grunted  Hardy  suspiciously,  "y°u  better 
tell  me  first  what  you  want." 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  write  me  a  letter,"  blurted 

[86*] 


BAD    BLOOD 

out  Creede.  "I  can  keep  a  tally  book  and  order  up 
the  grub  from  Bender;  but,  durn  the  luck,  when  it 
comes  to  makin'  love  on  paper  I  'd  rather  wrastle 
a  bear.  Course  you  know  who  it  is,  and  you  savvy 
how  them  things  is  done.  Throw  in  a  little  po'try, 
will  you,  and  —  and — -say,  Rufe,  for  God's  sake, 
help  me  out  on  this!" 

He  laid  one  hand  appealingly  upon  his  partner's, 
shoulder,  but  the  little  man  squirmed  out  from  under 
it  impatiently. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  doggedly.  "Sallie  Win- 
ship?" 

"Aw,  say,"  protested  Creede,  "don't  throw  it  into 
a  feller  like  that  —  Sal  went  back  on  me  years  ago. 
You  know  who  I  mean  —  Kitty  Bonnair." 

"Kitty  Bonnair!"  Hardy  had  known  it,  but  he 
had  tried  to  keep  her  name  unspoken.  Battle  as  he 
would  he  could  not  endure  to  hear  it,  even  from  Jeff. 

"What  do  you  want  to  tell  Miss  Bonnair?"  he  in- 
quired, schooling  his  voice  to  a  cold  quietness. 

"Tell  her?"  echoed  Creede  ecstatically.  "W'y, 
tell  her  I  'm  lonely  as  hell  now  she  's  gone  —  tell  her 
—  well,  there  's  where  I  bog  down,  but  I  'd  trade  my 
best  horse  for  another  kiss  like  that  one  she  give  me, 
and  throw  in  the  saddle  for  pelori.  Now,  say,  Rufe, 
don't  leave  me  in  a  hole  like  this.  You  Ve  made 
your  winnin',  and  here  's  your  nice  long  letter  to  Miss 

[365} 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Lucy.  My  hands  are  as  stiff  as  a  burnt  rawhide 
and  I  can't  think  out  them  nice  things  to  say;  but  I 
love  Kitty  jest  as  much  as  you  love  Miss  Lucy  — 
mebbe  more  —  and  —  and  I  wanter  tell  her  so!" 

He  ended  abjectly,  gazing  with  pleading  eyes  at 
the  stubborn  face  of  his  partner  whose  lips  were 
drawn  tight. 

"We  —  every  man  has  to  —  no,  I  can't  do  it,  Jeff,'' 
he  stammered,  choking.  "I  'd  —  I  'd  help  you  if  I 
could,  Jeff  —  but  she  'd  know  my  style.  Yes,  that 's 
it.  If  I  'd  write  the  letter  she  'd  know  it  was  from  me 
—  women  are  quick  that  way.  I  'm  sorry,  but  that 's 
the  way  it  is  —  every  man  has  to  fight  out  his  own 
battle,  in  love." 

He  paused  and  fumbled  with  his  papers. 

"Here  's  a  good  pen,"  he  said,  "and  —  and  here  's 
the  paper."  He  shoved  out  the  fair  sheet  upon 
which  he  had  intended  to  write  and  rose  up  dumbly 
from  the  table. 

"I  'm  going  to  bed,"  he  said,  and  slipped  quietly 
out  of  the  room.  As  he  lay  in  his  blankets  he  could 
see  the  gleam  of  light  from  the  barred  window  and 
hear  Jeff  scraping  his  boots  uneasily  on  the  floor. 
True  indeed,  his  hands  were  like  burnt  rawhide  from 
gripping  at  ropes  and  irons,  his  clothes  were  greasy 
and  his  boots  smelled  of  the  corral,  and  yet  —  she 
had  given  him  a  kiss!  He  tried  to  picture  it  in  his 

[366] 


BAD    BLOOD 

mind:  Kitty  smiling  —  or  startled,  perhaps  —  JefF 
masterful,  triumphant,  laughing.  Ah  God,  it  was 
the  same  kiss  she  had  offered  him,  and  he  had  run 
away! 

In  the  morning,  there  was  a  division  between: 
them,  a  barrier  which  could  not  be  overcome.  Creede 
lingered  by  the  door  a  minute,  awkwardly,  and  then 
rode  away.  Hardy  scraped  up  the  greasy  dishes  and 
washed  them  moodily.  Then  the  great  silence  settled 
down  upon  Hidden  Water  and  he  sat  alone  in  the 
shadow  of  the  ramada,  gazing  away  at  the  barren 
hills. 


[367] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   BIG  DRUNK 

sun  rose  clear  for  the  hundredth  time  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  Four  Peaks ;  it  mounted  higher, 
glowing  with  a  great  light,  and  the  smooth  round  tops 
of  the  bowlders  shone  like  half -buried  skulls  along 
the  creek-bed ;  it  swung  gloriously  up  to  its  zenith  and 
the  earth  palpitated  with  a  panting  heat.  Summer 
had  come,  and  the  long  days  when  the  lizards  crawl 
deep  into  their  crevices  and  the  cattle  follow  the 
scanty  shade  of  the  box  canons  or  gather  in  standing- 
places  where  the  wind  draws  over  the  ridges  and 
mitigates  the  flies.  In  the  pasture  at  Hidden  Water 
the  horses  stood  head  and  tail  together,  side  by  side, 
each  thrashing  the  flies  from  the  other's  face  and  doz- 
ing until  hunger  or  thirst  aroused  them  or  perversity 
took  them  away.  Against  the  cool  face  of  the  cliff 
the  buzzards  moped  and  stretched  their  dirty  wings 
in  squalid  discomfort;  the  trim  little  sparrow-hawks 
gave  over  their  hunting;  and  all  the  worI9  lay  tense 
and  still.  Only  at  the  ranch  house  where  Hardy 
kept  a  perfunctory  watch  was  there  any  sign  of 
motion  or  life. 

For  two  weeks  now  he  had  been  alone,  ever  since 

[368] 


THE    BIG    DRUNK 

Jeff  went  down  to  Bender,  and  with  the  solitary's 
dread  of  surprise  he  stepped  out  into  the  ramada 
regularly,  scanning  the  western  trail  with  eyes  grown 
weary  of  the  earth's  emptiness. 

At  last  as  the  sun  sank  low,  throwing  its  fiery  glare 
in  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  familiar  figure  against  the 
sky  —  Creede,  broad  and  bulky  and  topped  by  his 
enormous  hat,  and  old  Bat  Wings,  as  raw-boned  and 
ornery  as  ever.  Never  until  that  moment  had  Hardy 
realized  how  much  his  life  was  dependent  upon  this 
big,  warm-hearted  barbarian  who  clung  to  his  native 
range  as  instinctively  as  a  beef  and  yet  possessed  hu- 
man attributes  that  would  win  him  friends  anywhere 
in  the  world.  Often  in  that  long  two  weeks  he  had  re- 
proached himself  for  abandoning  Jeff  in  his  love- 
making.  What  could  be  said  for  a  love  which  made 
a  man  so  pitiless?  Was  it  worthy  of  any  return? 
Was  it,  after  all,  a  thing  to  be  held  so  jealously  to  his 
heart,  gnawing  out  his  vitals  and  robbing  him  of  his 
humanity?  These  and  many  other  questions  Hardy 
had  had  time  to  ask  himself  in  his  fortnight  of  intro- 
spection and  as  he  stood  by  the  doorway  waiting  he 
resolved  to  make  amends.  From  a  petty  creature 
wrapped  up  in  his  own  problems  and  prepossessions 
he  would  make  himself  over  into  a  man  worthy  of  the 
name  of  friend.  Yet  the  consciousness  of  his  fault 
lay  heavy  upon  him  and  as  Creede  rode  in  he  stood 

24  [369] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

silent,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  But  Jeff  for  his  part 
came  on  grimly,  and  there  was  a  sombre  glow  in  his 
<eyes  which  told  more  than  words. 

"Hello,  sport,"  he  said,  smiling  wantonly,  "could 
you  take  a  pore  feller  in  over  night?" 

"Sure  thing,  I  can,"  responded  Hardy  gayly. 
"Where  Ve  you  been  all  the  time?" 

And  Creede  chanted: 

"Down  to  Bender, 
On  a  bender, 
Oh,  I  'm  a  spender, 
You  bet  yer  life! 

"And  I  'm  broke,  too,"  he  added,  sotto  voce,  drop- 
ping off  his  horse  and  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  you  don't  need  to  let  that  worry  you,"  said 
Hardy.  "I  Ve  got  plenty.  Here  1"  He  went  down 
into  his  pocket  and  tossed  a  gold  piece  to  him,  but 
Creede  dodged  it  listlessly. 

"Nope,"  he  said,  "money  's  nothin'  to  me." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Hardy  anxiously. 
"Are  you  sick?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Creede,  nodding  his  head  wearily, 
"sick  and  tired  of  it  all."  He  paused  and  regarded 
his  partner  solemnly.  "I  'm  a  miserable  failure, 
Rufe,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  got  nothin'  and  I  ain't  worth 
nothin'.  I  never  done  nothin' — and  I  ain't  got  a 
friend  in  the  world." 

[370] 


THE    BIG    DRUNK 

He  stopped  and  gazed  at  the  barren  land  despond- 
ently, waiting  to  see  if  his  partner  would  offer  any 
protests. 

"Rufe,"  he  said,  at  last,  his  voice  tremulous  with 
reproach,  "if  you  'd  only  helped  me  out  a  little  on  that 
letter  —  if  you  'd  only  told  me  a  few  things  —  well, 
she  might  have  let  me  down  easy,  and  I  could  've  tooK 
it.  As  it  was,  she  soaked  me." 

Then  it  was  that  Hardy  realized  the  burden  under 
which  his  partner  was  laboring,  the  grief  that  clutched 
at  his  heart,  the  fire  that  burned  in  his  brain,  and  he 
could  have  wept,  now  that  it  was  too  late. 

"Jeff,"  he  said  honestly,  "it  don't  do  any  good 
now,  but  I  'm  sorry.  I  'm  more  than  sorry  —  I  'm 
ashamed.  But  that  don't  do  you  any  good  either,  does 
it?" 

He  stepped  over  and  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
upon  his  partner's  shoulder,  but  Creede  hunched  it 
off  impatiently. 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly  and  deliberately,  "not  a  dam* 
bit."  There  was  no  bitterness  in  his  words,  only  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  truth.  "They  was  only  one  thing 
for  me  to  do  after  I  received  that  letter,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  I  done  it.  I  went  on  a  hell-roarin'  drunk. 
That 's  right.  I  filled  up  on  that  forty-rod  whiskey 
until  I  was  crazy  drunk,  an'  then  I  picked  out  the 
biggest  man  in  town  and  fought  him  to  a  whisper."  / 

[371] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

'  He  sighed  and  glanced  at  his  swollen  knuckles, 
which  still  showed  the  marks  of  combat. 

"That  feller  was  a  jim-dandy  scrapper,"  he  said, 
smiling  magnanimously,  "but  I  downed  'im,  all  right. 
I  couldn't  quite  lick  the  whole  town,  but  I  tried; 
and  I  certainly  gave  'em  a  run  for  their  money,  while 
it  lasted.  If  Bender  don't  date  time  from  Jeff 
Creede's  big  drunk  I  miss  my  guess  a  mile.  And  you 
know,  after  I  got  over  bein'  fightin'  drunk,  I  got 
cryin'  drunk  —  but  I  never  did  get  drunk  enough  to 
tell  my  troubles,  thank  God !  The  fellers  think  I  'm 
sore  over  bein'  sheeped  out.  Well,  after  I  'd  pun- 
ished enough  booze  to  start  an  Injun  uprising  and 
played  the  faro  bank  for  my  wad,  I  went  to  sleep ;  and 
when  I  woke  up  it  seemed  a  lo-ong  time  ago  and  I 
could  look  back  and  see  jest  how  foolish  I  'd  been. 
I  could  see  how  she  'd  jollied  me  up  and  got  me 
comin',  playin'  me  off  against  Bill  Lightf oot ;  and  then 
I  could  see  how  she  'd  tantalized  me,  like  that  mouse 
the  cat  had  when  you  was  down  in  Bender;  and  then 
I  could  see  where  I  had  got  the  big-head  bad,  thinkin' 
I  was  the  only  one  —  and  all  the  time  she  was  laughin" 
at  me !  Oh,  it 's  nothin'  now  —  I  kin  laugh  at  it  my- 
self in  a  month;  but  I  'm  so  dam'  'shamed  I  could 
cry."  He  lopped  down  in  his  chair,  a  great  hulk  of 
a  man,  and  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"They  ain't  but  one  girl  I  ever  knowed,"  he  said 

[372] 


THE    BIG    DRUNK 

solemnly,  "that  wasn't  stringin'  me,  and  that  was 
Sallie  Winship.  Sal  liked  me,  dam  'd  if  she 
didn't.  She  cried  when  she  went  away,  but  the 
old  lady  wouldn't  stand  for  no  bow-legged  cow- 
puncher  —  and  so  I  git  euchred,  every  time." 

For  lack  of  some  higher  consolation  Hardy  cooked 
up  a  big  supper  for  his  low-spirited  partner,  and 
after  he  had  done  the  honors  at  the  feast  the  irrepres- 
sible good  health  of  the  cowboy  rose  up  and  conquered 
his  grief  in  spite  of  him.  He  began  by  telling  the 
story  of  his  orgy,  which  apparently  had  left  Bender 
a  wreck.  The  futile  rage  of  Black  Tex,  the  despair 
of  the  town  marshal,  the  fight  with  the  Big  Man,  the 
arrest  by  the  entire  posse  comitatus,  the  good  offices 
of  Mr.  Einstein  in  furnishing  bail,  the  crying  and 
sleeping  jags  —  all  were  set  forth  with  a  vividness 
which  left  nothing  to  the  imagination,  and  at  the  end 
the  big  man  was  comforted.  When  it  was  all  over 
and  his  memory  came  down  to  date  he  suddenly  re- 
called a  package  of  letters  that  were  tied  up  in 
his  coat,  which  was  still  on  the  back  of  his  saddle. 
He  produced  them  forthwith  and,  like  a  hungry  boy 
who  sees  others  eat,  sat  down  to  watch  Rufe  read. 
No  letters  ever  came  for  him  —  and  when  one  did 
come  it  was  bad.  The  first  in  the  pack  was  from 
Lucy  Ware  and  as  Hardy  read  it  his  face  softened, 
even  while  he  knew  that  Creede  was  watching. 

[373] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Say,  she's  all  right,  ain't  she?"  observed  Jeff, 
when  his  partner  looked  up. 

"That 's  right,"  said  Hardy,  "and  she  says  to  take 
you  on  again  as  foreman  and  pay  you  for  every  day 
you  did  n't  carry  your  gun." 

"No!"  cried  Creede,  and  then  he  laughed  quietly 
to  himself.  "Does  that  include  them  days  I  was 
prizin'  up  hell  down  in  Bender?  Oh,  it  does,  eh? 
Well,  you  can  tell  your  boss  that  I  '11  make  that  up 
to  her  before  the  Summer  's  over." 

He  leaned  back  and  stretched  his  powerful  arms  as 
if  preparing  for  some  mighty  labor.  "We  're  goin' 
to  have  a  drought  this  Summer,"  he  said  impressively, 
"that  will  have  the  fish  packin'  water  in  canteens. 
Yes,  sir,  the  chaser  is  goin'  to  cost  more  than  the 
whiskey  before  long;  and  they 's  goin'  to  be  some 
dead  cows  along  the  river.  Do  you  know  what  Pablo 
Moreno  is  doin'?  He  's  cuttin'  brush  already  to  feed 
his  cattle.  That  old  man  is  a  wise  hombre,  all  right, 
when  it  comes  to  weather.  He  's  been  hollerin'  fAno 
seco,  ano  secof  for  the  last  year,  and  now,  by  Joe, 
we  Ve  got  it!  They  ain't  hardly  enough  water  in  the 
river  to  make  a  splash,  and  here  it 's  the  first  of  June. 
We  Ve  been  kinder  wropt  up  in  fightin'  sheep  and 
sech  and  hain't  noticed  how  dry  it 's  gittin' ;  but  that 
old  feller  has  been  sittin'  on  top  of  his  hill  watchin' 
the  clouds,  and  smellin'  of  the  wind,  and  measurin' 

[374] 


THE    BIG    DRUNK 

the  river,  and  countin'  his  cows  until  he  's  a  weather 
sharp.  I  was  a-ridin'  up  the  river  this  afternoon 
when  I  see  the  old  man  cuttin'  down  a  palo  verde  tree, 
and  about  forty  head  of  cattle  lingerin'  around  to  eat 
the  top  off  as  soon  as  she  hit  the  ground ;  and  he  says 
to  me,  kinder  solemn  and  fatherly: 

"  *  Jeff,'  he  says,  'cut  trees  for  your  cattle  —  this 
is  an  ano  seco!  * 

"  'Yes,  I  Ve  heard  that  before,'  says  I.  'But  my 
cows  is  learnin'  to  climb.' ' 

ff  'Stawano/  he  says,  throwin'  out  his  hands  like  I 
was  a  hopeless  proposition.  But  all  the  same  I  think 
I  '11  go  out  to-morrow  and  cut  down  one  of  them  palo 
verdes  like  he  show'd  me  —  one  of  these  kind  with 
little  leaves  and  short  thorns  —  jest  for  an  expeeri- 
ment.  If  the  cattle  eat  it,  w'y  maybe  I  '11  cut  another, 
but  I  don't  want  to  be  goin'  round  stuffin'  my  cows 
full  of  twigs  for  nothin'.  Let  'em  rustle  for  their 
feed,  same  as  I  do.  But  honest  to  God,  Rufe,  some 
of  them  little  runty  cows  that  hang  around  the  river 
can't  hardly  cast  a  shadder,  they  're  that  ganted,  and 
calves  seems  to  be  gittin'  kinder  scarce,  too.  But  here 
—  git  busy,  now  —  here  's  a  letter  you  overlooked." 

He  pawed  over  the  pile  purposefully  and  thrust  a 
pale  blue  envelope  before  Hardy  —  a  letter  from 
Kitty  Bonnair.  And  his  eyes  took  on  a  cold,  fighting 
glint  as  he  observed  the  fatal  handwriting. 

[375] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"By  God,"  he  cried,  "I  hain't  figured  out  yet  what 
struck  me!  I  never  spoke  a  rough  word  to  that  girl 
in  my  life,  and  she  certainly  gimme  a  nice  kiss  when 
she  went  away.  But  jest  as  soon  as  I  write  her  a  love 
letter,  w'y  she  —  she  —  W'y  hell,  Ruf  e,  I  would  n't 
talk  that  way  to  a  sheep-herder  if  he  did  n't  know  no 
better.  Now  you  jest  read  that"-  -  he  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  and  slammed  a  crumpled  letter  down  before 
his  partner  — "and  tell  me  if  I  'm  wrong !  No,  I  want 
you  to  do  it.  Well,  I  '11  read  it  to  you,  then!" 

He  ripped  open  the  worn  envelope,  squared  his 
elbows  across  the  table,  and  opened  the  scented  in- 
closure  defiantly,  but  before  he  could  read  it  Hardy 
reached  out  suddenly  and  covered  it  with  his  hand. 

"Please  don't,  Jeff,"  he  said,  his  face  pale  and 
drawn.  "It  was  all  my  fault  —  I  should  have  told 
you  —  but  please  don't  read  it  to  me.  I  —  I  can't 
stand  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  retorted  Creede  coldly.  "I 
reckon  you  can  stand  it  if  I  can.  Now  suppose  you 
wrote  a  real  nice  letter  —  the  best  you  knowed  how 
—  to  your  girl,  and  she  handed  you  somethin'  like 
this:  'My  dear  Mr.  Creede,  yore  amazin'  letter — ' 
Here,  what  ye  doin'?" 

"I  won't  listen  to  it!"  cried  Hardy,  snatching  the 
letter  away,  "it 's  — " 

"Now  lookee  here,  Ruf  e  Hardy,"  began  Creede,  ris- 

[376] 


THE    BIG    DRUNK 

ing  up  angrily  from  his  chair,  "I  want  to  tell  you 
right  now  that  you  Ve  got  to  read  that  letter  or  lick 
me  —  and  I  doubt  if  you  can  do  that,  the  way  I 
happen  to  be  feelin'.  You  got  me  into  this  in  the 
first  place  and  now,  by  God,  you  11  see  it  out!  Now 
you  read  that  letter  and  tell  me  if  I  'm  wrong!" 

He  reared  up  his  head  as  he  spoke  and  Hardy  saw 
the  same  fierce  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  came  when  he 
harried  the  sheep;  but  there  was  something  beside 
that  moved  his  heart  to  pity.  It  was  the  lurking  sad- 
ness of  a  man  deep  hurt,  who  fights  the  whole  world 
in  his  anguish;  the  protest  of  a  soul  in  torment,  de- 
manding, like  Job,  that  some  one  shall  justify  his 
torture. 

"All  right,  Jeff,"  he  said,  "I  will  read  it  —  only  - 
only  don't  crowd  me  for  an  answer." 

He  spread  the  letter  before  him  on  the  table  and 
saw  in  a  kind  of  haze  the  angry  zigzag  characters  that 
galloped  across  the  page,  the  words  whose  meaning 
he  did  not  as  yet  catch,  so  swiftly  did  his  thoughts  rise 
up  at  sight  of  them.  Years  ago  Kitty  had  written 
him  a  letter  and  he  had  read  it  at  that  same  table.  It 
had  been  a  cruel  letter,  but  unconsidered,  like  the  tan- 
trum of  a  child.  Yes,  he  had  almost  forgotten  it, 
but  now  like  a  sudden  nightmare  the  old  horror 
clutched  at  his  heart.  He  steadied  himself,  and  the 
words  began  to  take  form  before  him.  Surely  she 

[377] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

would  be  gentle  with  Jeff,  he  was  so  big  and  kind. 
Then  he  read  on,  slowly,  grasping  at  the  mean- 
ing, and  once  more  his  eyes  grew  big  with  horror 
at  her  words.  He  finished,  and  bowed  his  head  upon 
the  table,  while  the  barren  room  whirled  before  him. 

From  his  place  across  the  table  the  big  cowboy 
looked  down  upon  him,  grim  and  masterful,  yet  won- 
dering at  his  silence. 

"Well,  am  I  wrong?"  he  demanded,  but  the  little 
man  made  no  answer. 

Upon  the  table  before  Hardy  there  lay  another 
letter,  written  in  that  same  woman's  hand,  a  letter 
to  him,  and  the  writing  was  smooth  and  fair.  Jeff 
had  brought  it  to  him,  tied  behind  his  saddle,  and  he 
stood  before  him  now,  waiting. 

"Am  I  wrong?"  he  said  again,  but  Hardy  did  not 
answer  in  words.  Holding  the  crumpled  letter  be- 
hind him  he  took  up  his  own  fair  missive  —  such  a 
one  as  he  would  have  died  for  in  years  gone  by  —  and 
laid  it  on  the  fire,  and  when  the  tiny  flame  leaped  up 
he  dropped  the  other  on  it  and  watched  them  burn 
together. 

"Well,  how  about  it?"  inquired  Creede,  awed  by 
the  long  silence,  but  the  little  man  only  bowed  his 
head. 

"Who  am  I,  to  judge?"  he  said. 


[3781 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  DROUGHT 

a  year  the  shadowy  clouds  had  flitted  past 
Hidden  Water,  drifting  like  flocks  of;  snowy 
birds  to  their  resting-place  against  the  Peaks,  and 
as  the  wind  raged  and  the  darkness  gathered  the 
cattle  had  "raised  their  heads  and  bellowed,  sniffing 
the  wet  air.  In  Summer  the  thunder-heads  had 
mounted  to  high  heaven  and  spread  from  east  to  west ; 
the  heat  lightning  had  played  along  the  horizon  at 
night,  restless  and  incessant ;  the  sky  had  turned  black 
and  the  south  wind  had  rushed  up,  laden  with  the 
smell  of  distant  showers.  At  last  the  rain  had  fallen, 
graciously,  bringing  up  grass  and  browse,  and  flowers 
for  those  who  sought  them.  But  all  the  time  the 
water  lay  in  black  pools  along  the  shrunken  river, 
trickling  among  the  rocks  and  eddying  around  huge 
snags  of  driftwood,  clear,  limpid,  sparkling,  yet 
always  less  and  less. 

Where  the  winter  floods  had  scoured  the  lowlands 
clear,  a  fuzz  of  baby  trees  sprang  up,  growing  to 
a  rank  prosperity  and  dying  suddenly  beneath  the 

[379] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sun.  Along  the  river's  edge  little  shreds  of  water- 
cress took  root  and  threw  out  sprouts  and  blossoms; 
the  clean  water  brought  forth  snaky  eel-grass  and 
scum  which  fed  a  multitude  of  fishes ;  in  the  shadows 
of  deep  rocks  the  great  bony-tails  and  Colorado 
River  salmon  lay  in  contented  shoals,  like  hogs  in 
wallows,  but  all  the  time  the  water  grew  less  and  less. 
At  every  shower  the  Indian  wheat  sprang  up  on  the 
mesas,  the  myriad  grass-seeds  germinated  and 
struggled  forth,  sucking  the  last  moisture  from  the 
earth  to  endow  it  with  more  seeds.  In  springtime 
the  deep-rooted  mesquites  and  polo  verdes  threw  out 
the  golden  halo  of  their  flowers  until  the  canons  were 
aflame;  the  soggy  sahuaros  drank  a  little  at  each 
sparse  downpour  and  defied  the  drought ;  all  the  world 
of  desert  plants  flaunted  their  pigmented  green 
against  the  barren  sky  as  if  in  grim  contempt;  but 
the  little  streams  ran  weaker  and  weaker,  creeping 
along  under  the  sand  to  escape  the  pitiless  sun. 

As  Creede  and  Hardy  rode  out  from  Hidden 
Water,  the  earth  lay  dead  beneath  their  horses'  feet 
—  stark  and  naked,  stripped  to  the  rocks  by  the  sheep. 
Even  on  Bronco  Mesa  the  ground  was  shorn  of  its 
covering;  the  cloven  hoofs  of  the  sheep  had  passed 
over  it  like  a  scalping  knife,  tearing  off  the  last  sun- 
blasted  fringe  of  grass.  In  open  spaces  where  they 
had  not  found  their  way  the  gaunt  cattle  still  curled 

[380] 


THE    DROUGHJC 

their  hungry  tongues  beneath  the  bushes  and  fetched 
out  spears  of  grass,  or  licked  the  scanty  Indian  wheat 
from  the  earth  itself. 

With  lips  as  tough  and  leathery  as  their  indurated 
faces,  the  hardiest  of  them  worked  their  way  into 
bunches  of  stick  cactus  and  chollas,  breaking  down  the 
guard  of  seemingly  impenetrable  spines  and  munch- 
ing on  the  juicy  stalks;  while  along  the  ridges  long- 
necked  cows  bobbed  for  the  high  browse  which  the 
sheep  had  been  unable  to  reach. 

The  famine  was  upon  them;  their  hips  stood  out 
Bony  and  unsightly  above  their  swollen  stomachs  as 
they  racked  across  the  benches,  and  their  eyes  were 
wild  and  haggard.  But  to  the  eye  of  Creede,  edu- 
cated by  long  experience,  they  were  still  strong  and 
whole.  The  weaklings  were  those  that  hung  about 
the  water,  foot-sore  from  their  long  journeyings  to 
the  distant  hills  and  too  weary  to  return.  At  the 
spring-hole  at  Carrizo  they  found  them  gathered,  the 
runts  and  roughs  of  the  range;  old  cows  with  impor- 
tunate calves  bunting  at  their  flaccid  udders;  young 
heifers,  unused  to  rustling  for  two;  orehannas  with 
no  mothers  to  guide  them  to  the  feed;  rough  steers 
that  had  been  "busted"  and  half-crippled  by  some 
reckless  cowboy  —  all  the  unfortunate  and  incapable 
ones,  standing  dead-eyed  and  hopeless  or  limping 
stiffly  about. 

[381] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

A  buzzard  rose  lazily  from  a  carcass  as  they  ap- 
proached, and  they  paused  to  note  the  brand.  Then 
Creede  shook  his  head  bodingly  and  rode  into  the 
bunch  by  the  spring.  At  a  single  glance  the  rodeo 
boss  recognized  each  one  of  them  and  knew  from 
whence  he  came.  He  jumped  his  horse  at  a  wild 
steer  and  started  him  toward  the  ridges;  the  cows 
with  calves  he  rounded  up  more  gently,  turning  them 
into  the  upper  trail;  the  orehannas,  poor  helpless 
orphans  that  they  were,  followed  hopefully,  leaving 
one  haggard-eyed  old  stag  behind. 

Creede  looked  the  retreating  band  over  critically 
and  shook  his  head  again. 

"Don't  like  it,"  he  observed,  briefly;  and  then,  un- 
locking the  ponderous  padlock  that  protected  their 
cabin  from  hungry  sheepmen,  he  went  in  and  fetched 
out  the  axe.  "Guess  I  '11  cut  a  tree  for  that  old  stiff," 
he  said. 

From  his  stand  by  the  long  troughs  where  all  the 
mountain  cattle  watered  in  Summer,  the  disconsolate 
old  stag  watched  the  felling  of  the  tree  curiously; 
then  after  an  interval  of  dreary  contemplation,  he 
racked  his  hide-bound  skeleton  over  to  the  place  and 
began  to  browse.  Presently  the  rocks  began  to  clat- 
ter on  the  upper  trail,  and  an  old  cow  that  had  been 
peering  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  came  back  to  get 
her  share.  Even  her  little  calf,  whose  life  had  been 

[382] 


THE    DROUGHT 

cast  in  thorny  ways,  tried  his  new  teeth  on  the  tender 
ends  and  found  them  good.  The  orehannas  drifted 
in  one  after  the  other,  and  other  cows  with  calves, 
and  soon  there  was  a  little  circle  about  the  tree-top, 
munching  at  the  soft,  brittle  twigs. 

"Well,  that  settles  it,"  said  Creede.  "One  of  us 
stays  here  and  cuts  brush,  and  the  other  works  around 
Hidden  Water.  This  ain't  the  first  drought  I  Ve 
been  through,  not  by  no  means,  and  I  Ve  learned  this 
much:  the  Alamo  can  be  dry  as  a  bone  and  Carrizo, 
too,  but  they  's  always  water  here  and  at  the  home 
ranch.  Sooner  or  later  every  cow  on  the  range  will 
be  goin'  to  one  place  or  the  other  to  drink,  and  if 
we  give  'em  a  little  bait  of  brush  each  time  it  keeps 
'em  from  gittin'  too  weak.  As  long  as  a  cow  will 
rustle  she  's  all  right,  but  the  minute  she  's  too  weak  to 
travel  she  gits  to  be  a  water-bum  —  hangs  around  the 
spring  and  drinks  until  she  starves  to  death.  But 
if  you  feed  'em  a  little  every  day  they  '11  drift  back 
to  the  ridges  at  night  and  pick  up  a  little  more.  I  'm 
sorry  for  them  lily-white  hands  of  yourn,  pardner, 
but  which  place  would  you  like  to  work  at?" 

"Hidden  Water,"  replied  Hardy,  promptly,  "and 
I  bet  I  can  cut  as  many  trees  as  you  can." 

"I  '11  go  you,  for  a  fiver,"  exclaimed  Creede, 
emulously.  "Next  time  Rafael  comes  in  tell  him  to 
bring  me  up  some  more  grub  and  baled  hay,  and 

[383] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

I  'm  fixed.  And  say,  wKen  you  write  to  the  boss 
you  can  tell  her  I  Ve  traded  my  gun  for  an  axe !" 

As  Hardy  turned  back  towards  home  he  swung  in 
a  great  circle  and  rode  down  the  dry  bed  of  the  Alamo, 
where  water-worn  bowlders  and  ricks  of  mountain 
drift  lay  strewn  for  miles  to  mark  the  vanished  stream. 
What  a  power  it  had  been  in  its  might,  floating  syca- 
mores and  ironwoods  as  if  they  were  reeds,  lapping 
high  against  the  granite  walls,  moving  the  very  rocks 
in  its  bed  until  they  ground  together!  But  now  the 
sand  lay  dry  and  powdery,  the  willows  and  water- 
moodies  were  dead  to  the  roots,  and  even  the  ancient 
cottonwoods  from  which  it  derived  its  name  were 
dying,  inch  by  inch.  A  hundred  years  they  had  stood 
there,  defying  storm  and  cloud-burst,  but  at  last  the 
drought  was  sucking  away  their  life.  On  the  mesa  the 
waxy  greasewood  was  still  verdant,  the  gorged 
sahuaro&  stood  like  great  tanks,  skin-tight  with  bitter 
juice,  and  all  the  desert  trees  were  tipped  with  green; 
but  the  children  of  the  river  were  dying  for  a  drink. 

A*  string  of  cattle  coming  in  from  The  Rolls 
stopped  and  stared  at  the  solitary  horseman,  head 
up  against  the  sky;  then  as  he  rode  on  they  fell 
in  behind  him,  travelling  the  deep -worn  trail  that  led 
to  Hidden  Water.  At  the  cleft-gate  of  the  pass, 
still  following  the  hard-stamped  trail,  Hardy  turned 
.aside  from  his  course  and  entered,  curious  to  see  his 

[384] 


THE     DROUGHT 

garden  again  before  it  succumbed  to  the  drought* 
There  before  him  stood  the  sycamores,  as  green  and 
flourishing  as  ever;  the  eagle  soared  out  from  his  cliff; 
the  bees  zooned  in  their  caves;  and  beyond  the  mas- 
sive dyke  that  barred  the  way  the  tops  of  the  elders 
waved  the  last  of  their  creamy  blossoms.  In  the  deep 
pool  the  fish  still  darted  about,  and  the  water-fall  that 
fed  it  was  not  diminished.  The  tinkle  of  its  music 
seemed  even  louder,  and  as  Hardy  looked  below  he 
saw  that  a  little  stream  led  way  from  the  pool,  flow- 
ing in  the  trench  where  the  cattle  came  to  drink.  It 
was  a  miracle,  springing  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth 
from  whence  the  waters  come.  When  all  the  world 
outside  lay  dead  and  bare,  Hidden  Water  flowed 
more  freely,  and  its  garden  lived  on  untouched. 

Never  had  Hardy  seen  it  more  peaceful,  and  as 
he  climbed  the  Indian  steps  and  stood  beneath  the 
elder  where  Chupa  Rosa  had  built  her  tiny  nest  his 
heart  leapt  suddenly  as  he  remembered  Lucy.  Here 
they  had  sat  together  in  the  first  gladness  of  her  com- 
ing, reading  his  forgotten  verse  and  watching  the 
eagle's  flight;  only  for  that  one  time,  and  then  the 
fight  with  the  sheep  had  separated  them.  He  reached 
up  and  plucked  a  spray  of  elder  blossoms  to  send  her 
for  a  keep-sake  —  and  then  like  a  blow  he  remem- 
bered the  forget-me-not!  From  that  same  garden 
he  had  fetched  her  a  forget-me-not  for  repentance, 

25  [385] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

and  then  forgotten  her  for  Kitty.  Who  but  Lucy 
could  have  left  the  little  book  of  poems,  or  treasured 
a  flower  so  long  to  give  it  back  at  parting?  And 
yet  in  his  madness  he  had  forgotten  her! 

He  searched  wistfully  among  the  rocks  for  another 
forget-me-not,  but  the  hot  breath  of  the  drought  had 
killed  them.  As  he  climbed  slowly  down  the  stone 
steps  he  mused  upon  some  poem  to  take  the  place 
of  the  flowers  that  were  dead,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
drought  was  everywhere.  The  very  rocks  themselves, 
burnt  black  by  centuries  of  sun,  were  painted  with 
Indian  prayers  for  rain.  A  thousand  times  he  had 
seen  the  sign,  hammered  into  the  blasted  rocks  — 
the  helix,  that  mystic  symbol  of  the  ancients,  a  circle, 
ever  widening,  never  ending, —  and  wondered  at  the 
fate  of  the  vanished  people  who  had  prayed  to  the 
Sun  for  rain. 

The  fragments  of  their  sacrificial  olios  lay  strewn 
among  the  bowlders,  but  the  worshippers  were  dead; 
and  now  a  stranger  prayed  to  his  own  God  for 
rain.  As  he  sat  at  his  desk  that  night  writing  to 
Lucy  about  the  drought,  the  memory  of  those  Indian 
signs  came  upon  him  suddenly  and,  seizing  a  fresh 
sheet  of  paper,  he  began  to  write.  At  the  second 
stanza  he  paused,  planned  out  his  rhymes  and  hur- 
ried on  again,  but  just  as  his  poem  seemed  finished, 
he  halted  at  the  last  line.  Wrestle  as  he  would  he 

[386] 


THE    DROUGHT 

could  not  finish  it  —  the  rhymes  were  against  him 
-it  would  not  come  right.  Ah,  that  is  what  sets 
the  artist  apart  from  all  the  under- world  of  dreamers 
-his  genius  endures  to  the  end;  but  the  near-poet 
struggles  like  a  bee  limed  in  his  own  honey.  What  a 
confession  of  failure  it  was  to  send  away  —  a  poem 
unfinished,  or  finished  wrong!  And  yet  —  the  un- 
finished poem  was  like  him.  How  often  in  the  past 
had  he  left  things  unsaid,  or  said  them  wrong.  Per- 
haps Lucy  would  understand  the  better  and  prize  it 
for  its  faults.  At  last,  just  as  it  was,  he  sent  it  off, 
and  so  it  came  to  her  hand. 

A  PRAYER  FOR  RAIN 

Upon  this  blasted  rock,  O  Sun,  behold 

Our  humble  prayer  for  rain — and  here  below 

A  tribute  from  the  thirsty  stream,  that  rolled 
Bank-full  in  flood,  but  now  is  sunk  so  low 

Our  old  men,  tottering,  yet  may  stride  acrost 

And  babes  run  pattering  where  the  wild  waves  tossed. 

The  grass  is  dead  upon  the  stem,  O  Sun ! 

The  lizards  pant  with  heat — they  starve  for  flies — 
And  they  for  grass — and  grass  for  rain !     Yea,  none 

Of  all  that  breathe  may  face  these  brazen  skies 
And  live,  O  Sun,  without  the  touch  of  rain. 
Behold,  thy  children  lift  their  hands — in  vain ! 

• 
Drink  up  the  water  from  this  olla's  brim 

And  take  the  precious  corn  here  set  beside — 
[387] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Then  summon  thy  dark  clouds,  and  from  the  rim 

Of  thy  black  shield  strike  him  who  hath  defied 
Thy  power !     Appease  thy  wrath,  Great  Sun — but  give 
Ah,  give  the  touch  of  rain  to  those  that  live ! 

As  it  had  been  a  thousand  years  before,  so  it  was 
that  day  at  Hidden  Water.  The  earth  was  dead, 
it  gave  forth  nothing;  the  sky  was  clean  and  hard, 
without  a  cloud  to  soften  its  asperity.  Another 
month  and  the  cattle  would  die;  two  months  and 
the  water  would  fail;  then  in  the  last  agonies  of 
starvation  and  thirst  the  dissolution  would  come  — 
the  Four  Peaks  would  be  a  desert.  Old  Don  Pablo 
was  right,  the  world  was  drying  up.  Chihuahua 
and  Sonora  were  parched;  all  Arizona  lay  stricken 
with  the  drought;  in  California  the  cattle  were  dying 
on  the  ranges,  and  in  Texas  and  New  Mexico  the 
same.  God,  what  a  thing  —  to  see  the  great  earth 
that  had  supported  its  children  for  ages  slowly  dying 
for  water,  its  deserts  first,  and  then  its  rivers,  and 
then  the  pine-topped  mountains  that  gave  the  rivers 
birth!  Yet  what  was  there  for  a  man  to  do  but  take 
care  of  his  own  and  wait?  The  rest  was  in  the  hands 
of  God. 

On  the  first  morning  that  Hardy  took  his  axe  and 
went  down  to  the  river  he  found  a  single  bunch  of 
gaunted  cattle  standing  in  the  shade  of  the  big  mes- 
quites  that  grew  against  Lookout  Point  —  a  runty 

[388] 


THE     DROUGHT 

cow  with  her  two-year-old  and  yearling,  and  a 
wobbly  calf  with  a  cactus  joint  stuck  across  his  nose, 
His  mother's  face  showed  that  she,  too,  had  been 
among  the  chollas;  there  was  cactus  in  her  knees 
and  long  spines  bristling  from  her  jaws,  but  she 
could  stand  it,  while  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death 
to  the  calf.  Every  time  he  came  near  his  mother  she 
backed  away,  and  whenever  he  began  to  nudge  for 
milk  she  kicked  out  wildly.  So  Hardy  roped  him  and 
twitched  the  joint  away  with  a  stick;  then  he  pulled 
out  the  thorns  one  by  one  and  went  about  his  work. 

Selecting  a  fine-leaved  polo  verde  that  grew  against 
the  point,  he  cleared  a  way  into  its  trunk  and  felled 
it  down  the  hill.  He  cut  a  second  and  a  third,  and 
when  he  looked  back  he  saw  that  his  labor  was  ap- 
preciated; the  runty  cow  was  biting  eagerly  at  the 
first  tree-top,  and  the  wobbly  calf  was  restored  ta 
his  own.  As  the  sound  of  the  axe  continued,  a  band 
of  tame  cattle  came  stringing  down  the  sandy  river- 
bed, and  before  the  morning  was  over  there  were  ten 
or  twenty  derelicts  and  water-bums  feeding  along 
the  hillside.  In  the  afternoon  he  cut  more  trees  along 
the  trail  to  Hidden  Water,  and  the  next  day  when 
he  went  to  work  he  found  a  little  band  of  weaklings 
there,  lingering  expectantly  in  the  shadow  of  the 
canon  wall.  As  the  days  went  by  more  and  more 
of  them  gathered  about  the  water,  the  lame,  the 

[389] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

sick,  the  crippled,  the  discouraged,  waiting  for  more 
trees  to  be  felled.  Then  as  the  feed  on  the  distant 
ridges  grew  thinner  and  the  number  of  cut  trees  in- 
creased, a  great  band  of  them  hung  about  the  vicinity 
of  the  ranch  house  constantly  —  the  herds  from  Hid- 
den Water  and  the  river,  merged  into  one  —  waiting 
to  follow  him  to  the  hills. 

For  a  mile  up  and  down  the  canon  of  the  Alamo, 
the  polo  verde  stumps  dotted  the  hillside,  each  with 
its  top  below  it,  stripped  to  the  bark  and  bared  of 
every  twig.  As  the  breathless  heat  of  July  came  on, 
Hardy  was  up  before  dawn,  hewing  and  felling,  and 
each  day  the  long  line  of  cattle  grew.  They  trampled 
at  his  heels  like  an  army,  gaunt,  emaciated;  mothers 
mooing  for  their  calves  that  lay  dead  along  the 
gulches ;  mountain  bulls  and  outlaws,  tamed  by  gnaw- 
ing hunger  and  weakness,  and  the  awful  stroke  of  the 
heat.  And  every  day  other  bands  of  outlaws,  driven 
at  last  from  their  native  hills,  drifted  in  to  swell  the 
herd.  For  a  month  Hardy  had  not  seen  a  human 
face,  nor  had  he  spoken  to  any  living  creature  ex- 
cept Chapuli  or  some  poor  cow  that  lay  dying  by  the 
water.  When  he  was  not  cutting  trees  on  the  farther 
ridges,  he  was  riding  along  the  river,  helping  up 
those  that  had  fallen  or  dragging  away  the  dead. 

Worn  and  foot-sore,  with  their  noses  stuck  full  of 
cactus  joints,  their  tongues  swollen  from  the  en- 

[390] 


THE    DROUGHT 

venomed  thorns,  their  stomachs  afire  from  thirst  and 
the  burden  of  bitter  stalks,  the  wild  cattle  from  the 
ridges  would  stagger  down  to  the  river  and  drink 
until  their  flanks  bulged  out  and  their  bellies  hung 
heavy  with  water.  Then,  overcome  with  fatigue  and 
heat,  they  would  sink  down  in  the  shade  and  lie  dream- 
ing; their  limbs  would  stiffen  and  cramp  beneath 
them  until  they  could  not  move;  and  there  they  would 
lie  helpless,  writhing  their  scrawny  necks  as  they 
struggled  to  get  their  feet  under  them.  To  these 
every  day  came  Hardy  with  his  rawhide  reata. 
Those  that  he  could  not  scare  up  he  pulled  up;  if 
any  had  died  he  dragged  the  bodies  away  from  the 
water;  and  as  soon  as  the  recent  arrivals  had  drunk 
he  turned  them  away,  starting  them  on  their  long 
journey  to  the  high  ridges  where  the  sheep  had  not 
taken  the  browse. 

Ah,  those  sheep !  How  many  times  in  the  fever  of 
heat  and  work  and  weariness  had  Hardy  cursed  them, 
his  tongue  seeking  unbidden  the  wickedest  words  of 
the  range ;  how  many  times  had  he  cursed  Jim  Swope, 
and  Jasper  Swope,  the  Mexicans,  and  all  who  had 
rushed  in  to  help  accomplish  their  ruin.  And  as  the 
sun  beat  down  and  no  clouds  came  into  the  sky  he 
cursed  himself,  blindly,  for  all  that  had  come  to  pass. 
One  man  —  only  one  —  at  the  mouth  of  Hell's  Hip 
Pocket,  and  the  sheep  might  have  been  turned  back; 

[391] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

but  he  himself  had  seen  the  dust-cloud  and  let  it  pass 

—  and  for  that  the  cattle  died.     The  sheep  were  far 
away,  feeding  peacefully  in  mountain  valleys  where 
the  pines  roared  in  the  wind  and  the  nights  were 
cool  and  pleasant;  but  if  the  rain  came  and  young 
grass  sprang  up  on  Bronco  Mesa  they  would  come 
again,  and  take  it  in  spite  of  them.     Yes,  even  if 
the  drought  was  broken  and  the  cattle  won  back  their 
strength,  that  great  army  would  come  down  from 
the  north  once  more  and  sheep  them  down  to  the 
rocks !     But  one  thing  Hardy  promised  himself  - 
forgetting  that  it  was  the  bootless  oath  of  old  Bill 
Johnson,  who  was  crazy  now  and  hiding  in  the  hills 

—  he  would  kill  the  first  sheep  that  set  foot  on  Bronco 
Mesa,  and  the  next,  as  long  as  he  could  shoot;  and 
Jasp  Swope  might  answer  as  he  would. 

Yet,  why  think  of  sheep  and  schemes  of  belated 
vengeance?  —  the  grass  was  gone;  the  browse  was 
cleaned;  even  the  polo  verde  trees  were  growing 
scarce.  Day  by  day  he  must  tramp  farther  and 
farther  along  the  ridge,  and  all  that  patient,  trust- 
ing army  behind,  waiting  for  him  to  find  more  trees ! 
Already  the  weakest  were  left  behind  and  stood  along 
the  trails,  eying  him  mournfully;  yet  work  as  he 
would  he  could  not  feed  the  rest.  There  was  no  fine- 
drawn distinction  now  —  every  palo  verde  on  the  hill- 
side fell  before  his  axe,  whether  it  was  fine-leaved  and 

[392] 


THE    DROUGHT 

short-thorned,  or  rough  and  spiny;  and  the  cattle 
ate  them  all.  Mesquite  and  cat-claw  and  ironwood, 
tough  as  woven  wire  and  barbed  at  every  joint, 
these  were  all  that  were  left  except  cactus  and  the 
armored  sahuaros.  In  desperation  he  piled  brush  be- 
neath clumps  of  fuzzy  chollas,  the  thorniest  cactus 
that  grows,  and  burned  off  the  resinous  spines ;  but  the 
silky  bundles  of  stickers  still  lurked  beneath  the  ashes, 
and  the  cattle  that  ate  them  died  in  agony. 

Once  more  Hardy  took  his  ax  and  went  out  in 
search  of  palo  verdes,  high  or  low,  young  or  old. 
There  was  a  gnarled  trunk,  curling  up  against  a 
rocky  butte  and  protected  by  two  spiny  sahuaros  that 
stood  before  it  like  armed  guards,  and  he  climbed 
up  the  rock  to  reach  it.  Chopping  away  the  first 
sahuaro  he  paused  to  watch  it  fall.  As  it  broke  open 
like  a  giant  melon  on  the  jagged  rocks  below,  the 
cattle  crowded  about  it  eagerly,  sniffing  at  the  shat- 
tered parts  —  and  then  the  hardiest  of  them  began 
suddenly  to  eat! 

On  the  outside  the  wiry  spines  stood  in  rows  like 
two-inch  knife  blades;  but  now  the  juicy  heart,  laid 
open  by  the  fall,  was  exposed,  and  the  cattle  munched 
it  greedily.  A  sudden  hope  came  to  Hardy  as  he 
watched  them  feed,  and,  climbing  higher,  he  felled 
two  more  of  the  desert  giants,  dropping  them  from 
their  foothold  against  the  butte  far  down  into  the 

[393] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

rocky  canon.  As  they  struck  and  burst,  and  the 
sickly  aroma  filled  the  air,  the  starved  cattle,  bitten 
with  a  new  appetite,  rushed  forward  in  hordes  to  eat 
out  their  bitter  hearts.  At  last,  when  the  battle  had 
seemed  all  but  over,  he  had  found  a  new  food, —  one 
that  even  Pablo  Moreno  had  overlooked, —  each  plant 
a  ton  of  bitter  pulp  and  juice.  The  coarse  and  wiry 
spines,  whose  edges  would  turn  an  axe,  were  con- 
quered in  a  moment  by  the  fall  from  the  precipitous 
cliffs.  And  the  mesa  was  covered  with  them,  like  a 
forest  of  towering  pin-cushions,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see!  A  great  gladness  came  over  Hardy  as  he  saw 
the  starved  cattle  eat,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  felled  a 
score  or  more  he  galloped  up  to  Carrizo  to  tell  the 
news  to  Jeff. 

The  mesa  was  deserted  of  every  living  creature. 
There  was  not  a  snake  track  in  the  dust  or  a  raven  in 
the  sky,  but  as  he  topped  the  brow  of  the  hill  and 
looked  down  into  the  canon,  Hardy  saw  a  great  herd 
of  cattle,  and  Creede  in  the  midst  of  them  still  hack- 
ing away  at  the  thorny  polo  verdes.  At  the  clatter 
of  hoofs,  the  big  man  looked  up  from  his  work,  wiping 
the  sweat  and  grime  from  his  brow,  and  his  face  was 
hard  and  drawn  from  working  beyond  his  strength. 

"Hello !"  he  called.  "How  's  things  down  your  way 
—  water  holdin'  out?  Well,  you're  in  luck,  then; 
I  Ve  had  to  dig  the  spring  out  twice,  and  you  can  see 

[394] 


THE    DROUGHT 

how  many  cows  I  'm  feedin'.  But  say,"  he  continued, 
"d'  ye  you  think  it's  as  hot  as  this  down  in  hell?  Well, 
if  I  thought  for  a  minute  it  'd  be  as  dry  I  'd  take  a 
big  drink  and  join  the  church,  you  can  bet  money  on 
that.  What 's  the  matter  —  have  you  got  enough?" 

"I  Ve  got  enough  of  cutting  palo  verdes"  replied 
Hardy,  "but  you  just  lend  me  that  axe  for  a  minute 
and  I  '11  show  you  something."  He  stepped  to  the 
nearest  sdhuaro  and  with  a  few  strokes  felled  it  down 
the  hill,  and  when  Creede  saw  how  the  cattle  crowded 
around  the  broken  trunk  he  threw  down  his  hat  and 
swore. 

"Well  —  damn  —  me,"  he  said,  "for  a  pin-head  I 
Here  I  Ve  been  cuttin'  these  ornery  palo  verdes  until 
my  hands  are  like  a  Gila  monster's  back,  and  now 
look  at  them  cows  eat  giant  cactus!  There  's  no  use 
talkin',  Rufe,  the  feller  that  wears  the  number  five 
hat  and  the  number  forty  jumper  ain't  worth  hell- 
room  when  you  're  around  —  here,  gimme  that  axe !" 
He  seized  it  in  his  thorn-scarred  hands  and  whirled 
into  the  surrounding  giants  like  a  fury ;  then  when  he 
had  a  dozen  fat  sdhuaros  laid  open  among  the  rocks 
he  came  back  and  sat  down  panting  in  the  scanty 
shade  of  an  ironwood. 

"I  'm  sore  on  myself,"  he  said.  "But  that 's  the 
way  it  is !  If  I  'd  had  the  brains  of  a  rabbit  I  'd  Ve 
stopped  Jasp  Swope  last  Spring  —  then  I  would  n't 

[395] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

need  to  be  cuttin'  brush  here  all  Summer  like  a  Mexi- 
can wood-chopper.  That's  where  we  fell  down  — 
lettin'  them  sheep  in  —  and  now  we  Ve  got  to  sweat 
for  it.  But  lemme  tell  you,  boy,"  he  cried,  raising  a 
mighty  fist,  "if  I  can  keep  jest  one  cow  alive  until  Fall 
I  'm  goin'  to  meet  Mr.  Swope  on  the  edge  of  my  range 
and  shoot  'im  full  of  holes!  Nothin'  else  will  do, 
somebody  has  got  to  be  killed  before  this  monkey  busi- 
ness will  stop !  I  Ve  been  makin'  faces  and  skinnin* 
my  teeth  at  that  dastard  long  enough  now,  and  I  'm 
goin'  to  make  him  fight  if  I  have  to  put  high-life  on 


'im!" 


He  stopped  and  looked  out  over  the  hillside  where 
the  heat  quivered  in  rainbows  from  the  rocks,  and  the 
naked  polo  verdes,  stripped  of  their  bark,  bleached 
like  skeletons  beside  their  jagged  stumps. 

"Say,  Rufe,"  he  began,  abruptly,  "I  'm  goin' 
crazy." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly  and  sighed.  "I  always 
thought  I  was,"  he  continued,  "but  old  Bill  Johnson 
blew  in  on  me  the  other  day  —  he  's  crazy,  you  know 
-  and  when  I  see  him  I  knowed  it !  W'y,  pardner, 
Bill  is  the  most  reas-on-dble  son-of-a-gun  you  can 
imagine.  You  can  talk  to  him  by  the  hour,  and  out- 
,side  of  bein'  a  little  techy  he  's  all  right ;  but  the 
minute  you  mention  sheep  to  him  his  eye  turns  glassy 
,and  he  's  off.  Well,  that 's  me,  too,  and  has  been  for 

[396] 


THE    DROUGHT 

years,  only  not  quite  so  bad;  but  then,  Bill  is  plumb 
sheeped  out  and  I  ain't  —  quite!" 

He  laughed  mirthlessly  and  filled  a  cigarette. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  squinting  his  eyes  down 
shrewdly,  "that  old  feller  ain't  so  durned  crazy  yet. 
He  wanted  some  ammunition  to  shoot  up  sheep-camps 
with,  but  bein'  a  little  touched,  as  you  might  say,  he 
thought  I  might  hold  out  on  'im,  so  he  goes  at  me  like 
this:  'Jeff,'  he  says,  'I  Ve  took  to  huntin'  lions  for 
the  bounty  now  —  me  and  the  haounds  —  and  I  want 
to  git  some  thirty-thirtys.'  But  after  I  'd  give  him 
all  I  could  spare  he  goes  on  to  explain  how  the  sheep, 
not  satisfied  with  eatin'  'im  out  of  house  and  home,  had 
gone  and  tolled  all  the  lions  away  after  'em  —  so,  of 
course,  he  '11  have  to  f  oiler  along,  too.  You  catch 
that,  I  reckon." 

Creede  drooped  his  eyes  significantly  and  smoked. 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  old  Bill  Johnson,"  he  said, 
"we  wouldn't  have  a  live  cow  on  our  range  to-day, 
we  'd  Ve  been  sheeped  down  that  close.  When  he  'd 
got  his  ammunition  and  all  the  bacon  and  coffee  I 
could  spare  he  sat  down  and  told  me  how  he  worked 
it  to  move  all  them  sheep  last  Spring.  After  he  'd 
made  his  first  big  play  and  see  he  could  n't  save  the 
Pocket  he  went  after  them  sheepmen  systematically 
for  his  revenge.  That  thirty-thirty  of  his  will  shoot 
nigh  onto  two  miles  if  you  hold  it  right,  and  every 

[397] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

time  he  sees  a  sheep-camp  smoke  he  Injuned  up  onto 
some  high  peak  and  took  pot-shots  at  it.  At  the 
distance  he  was  you  could  n't  hear  the  report  —  and, 
of  course,  you  couldn't  see  smokeless  powder. 
He  says  the  way  them  Mexican  herders  took  to  the 
rocks  was  a  caution ;  and  when  the  fireworks  was  over 
they  didn't  wait  for  orders,  jest  rounded  up  their 
sheep  and  hiked! 

"And  I  tell  you,  pardner,"  said  the  big  cowman 
impressively,  "after  thinkin'  this  matter  over  in  the 
hot  sun  I  've  jest  about  decided  to  go  crazy  myself. 
Yes,  sir,  the  next  time  I  hear  a  sheep-blat  on  Bronco 
Mesa  I  'm  goin'  to  tear  my  shirt  gittin'  to  the  high 
ground  with  a  thirty- thirty ;  and  if  any  one  should 
inquire  you  can  tell  'em  that  your  pore  friend's  mind 
was  deranged  by  cuttin'  too  many  polo  verdes"  He 
smiled,  but  there  was  a  sinister  glint  in  his  eyes ;  and 
as  he  rode  home  that  night  Hardy  saw  in  the  half- 
jesting  words  a  portent  of  the  never-ending  struggle 
that  would  spring  up  if  God  ever  sent  the  rain. 

On  the  day  after  the  visit  to  Carrizo  a  change  came 
over  the  sky;  a  haze  that  softened  the  edges  of  the 
hills  rose  up  along  the  horizon,  and  the  dry  wind  died 
away.  As  Hardy  climbed  along  the  rocky  bluffs  fell- 
ing the  giant  sahuaros  down  into  the  ravines  for  his 
cattle,  the  sweat  poured  from  his  face  in  a  stream. 
A  sultry  heaviness  hung  over  the  land,  and  at  night 

[398] 


THE    DROUGHT 

as  he  lay  beneath  the  ramada  he  saw  the  lightning, 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  twinkling  and  playing  along 
the  northern  horizon.  It  was  a  sign  —  the  promise 
of  summer  rain! 

In  the  morning  a  soft  wind  came  stealing  in  from 
the  west;  a  white  cloud  came  up  out  of  nothing  and 
hovered  against  the  breast  of  the  Peaks ;  and  the  sum- 
mer heat  grew  terrible.  At  noon  the  cloud  turned 
black  and  mounted  up,  its  fluffy  summit  gleaming  in 
the  light  of  the  ardent  sun;  the  wind  whirled  across 
the  barren  mesa,  sweeping  great  clouds  of  dust  before 
it,  and  the  air  grew  damp  and  cool;  then,  as  evening 
came  on  the  clouds  vanished  suddenly  and  the  wind 
died  down  to  a  calm.  For  a  week  the  spectacle  was 
repeated  —  then,  at  last,  as  if  weary,  the  storm- wind 
refused  to  blow;  the  thunder-caps  no  longer  piled  up 
against  the  Peaks;  only  the  haze  endured,  and  the 
silent,  suffocating  heat. 

Day  after  day  dragged  by,  and  without  thought  or 
hope  Hardy  plodded  on,,  felling  sdhuaros  into  the 
canons,  his  brain  whirling  in  the  fever  of  the  great 
heat.  Then  one  day  as  the  sun  rose  higher  a  gigantic 
mass  of  thunder-clouds  leapt  up  in  the  north,  covering 
half  the  sky.  The  next  morning  they  rose  again, 
brilliant,  metallic,  radiating  heat  like  a  cone  of  fire. 
The  heavens  were  crowned  with  sudden  splendor,  the 
gorgeous  pageantry  of  summer  clouds  that  rise  rank 

[399] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

upon  rank,  basking  like  new-born  cherubim  in  the 
glorious  light  of  the  sun,  climbing  higher  and  higher 
until  they  reached  the  zenith. 

A  moist  breeze  sprang  up  and  rushed  into  the 
storm's  black  heart,  feeding  it  with  vapors  from  the 
Gulf ;  then  in  the  south,  the  home  of  the  rain,  another 
great  cloud  arose,  piling  in  fluffy  billows  against  the 
grim  cliffs  of  the  Superstitions  and  riding  against 
the  flying  cohorts  that  reared  their  snowy  heads  in  the 
north.  The  wind  fell  and  all  nature  lay  hushed  and 
expectant,  waiting  for  the  rain.  The  cattle  would 
not  feed;  the  bearded  ravens  sat  voiceless  against 
the  cliffs;  the  gaunt  trees  and  shrubs  seemed  to  hold 
up  their  arms  —  for  the  rain  that  did  not  come.  For 
after  all  its  pomp  and  mummery,  its  black  mantle 
that  covered  all  the  sky  and  the  bravery  of  its  trailing 
skirts,  the  Storm,  that  rode  in  upon  the  wind  like  a 
king,  slunk  away  at  last  like  a  beaten  craven.  Its 
black  front  melted  suddenly,  and  its  draggled  banners, 
trailing  across  the  western  sky,  vanished  utterly  in  the 
kindling  fires  of  sunset. 

As  he  lay  beneath  the  starlit  sky  that  night,  Hardy 
saw  a  vision  of  the  end,  as  it  would  come.  He  saw 
the  canons  stripped  clean  of  their  high-standing 
sdhuaros,  the  spring  at  Carrizo  dry,  the  river  stink- 
ing with  the  bodies  of  the  dead  —  even  Hidden 
Water  quenched  at  last  by  the  drought.  Then  a  heavy 

[400] 


THE     DROUGHT 

sleep  came  upon  him  as  he  lay  sprawling  in  the  pitiless 
heat  and  he  dreamed  —  dreamed  of  gaunt  steers  and 
lowing  cows,  and  skeletons,  strewn  along  the  washes ; 
of  labor,  never  ending,  and  sweat,  dripping  from  his 
face.  He  woke  suddenly  with  the  horror  still  upon 
him  and  gazed  up  at  the  sky,  searching  vainly  for 
the  stars.  The  night  was  close  and  black,  there  was 
a  stir  among  the  dead  leaves  as  if  a  snake  writhed 
past,  and  the  wind  breathed  mysteriously  through  the 
bare  trees;  then  a  confused  drumming  came  to  his 
ears,  something  warm  and  wet  splashed  against  his 
face,  and  into  his  outstretched  hand  God  sent  a  drop 
of  rain. 


[401] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    FLOOD 

rain  came  to  Hidden  Water  in  great  drops, 
warmed  by  the  sultry  air.    At  the  first  flurry  the 
dust  rose  up  like  smoke,  and  the  earth  hissed;  then  as 
the  storm  burst  in  tropic  fury  the  ground  was  struck 
flat,  the  dust-holes  caught  the  rush  of  water  and  held 
it  in  sudden  puddles  that  merged  into  pools  and  rivu- 
lets   and    glided    swiftly    away.     Like    a    famine- 
stricken  creature,  the  parched  earth  could  not  drink ; 
its  bone-dry  dust  set  like  cement  beneath  the  too  gen- 
erous flood  and  refused  to  take  it  in  —  and  still  the 
rain  came  down  in  sluicing  torrents  that  never  stayed 
or  slackened.     The  cracked  dirt  of  the  ramada  roof 
dissolved  and  fell  away,  and  the  stick  frame  leaked 
like  a  sieve.     The  rain  wind,  howling  and  rumbling 
through  the  framework,  hurled  the  water  to  the  very 
door  where  Hardy  stood,  and  as  it  touched  his  face, 
a  wild,  animal  exultation  overcame  him  and  he  dashed 
out  into  the  midst  of  it.     God,  it  was  good  to  feel 
the  splash  of  rain  again,  to  lean  against  the  wind,  and 
to  smell  the  wet  and  mud!     He  wandered  about 
through  it  recklessly,  now  bringing  in  his  saddle  and 

[4-02] 


THE     FLOOD 

bedding,  now  going  out  to  talk  with  his  horse,  at  last 
simply  standing  with  his  hands  outstretched  while  his 
whole  being  gloried  in  the  storm. 

As  the  night  wore  on  and  the  swash  of  water  became 
constant,  Hardy  lay  in  his  blankets  listening  to  the 
infinite  harmonies  that  lurk  in  the  echoes  of  rain, 
listening  and  laughing  when,  out  of  the  rumble  of 
the  storm,  there  rose  the  deeper  thunder  of  running 
waters.  Already  the  rocky  slides  were  shedding  the 
downpour;  the  draws  and  gulches  were  leading  it  in- 
to the  creek.  But  above  their  gurgling  murmur  there 
came  a  hoarser  roar  that  shook  the  ground,  rever- 
berating through  the  damp  air  like  the  diapason  of 
some  mighty  storm-piece.  At  daybreak  he  hurried 
up  the  canon  to  find  its  source,  plunging  along 
through  the  rain  until,  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff  that 
looked  out  up  the  Alamo,  he  halted,  astounded  at  the 
spectacle.  From  its  cleft  gate  Hidden  Water,  once 
so  quiet  and  peaceful,  was  now  vomiting  forth  mud, 
rocks,  and  foaming  waters  in  one  mad  torrent;  it 
overleapt  the  creek,  piling  up  its  debris  in  a  solid 
dam  that  stretched  from  bank  to  bank,  while  from 
its  lower  side  a  great  sluiceway  of  yellow  water  spilled 
down  into  the  broad  bed  of  the  Alamo. 

Above  the  dam,  where  the  canon  boxed  in  between 
perpendicular  walls,  there  lay  a  great  lagoon,  a  lake 
that  rose  minute  by  minute  as  if  seeking  to  override 

[403] 


HIDDEN    WAT  EH 

its  dam,  yet  held  back  by  the  torrent  of  sand  and 
water  that  Hidden  Water  threw  across  its  path. 
For  an  hour  they  fought  each  other,  the  Alamo  striv- 
ing vainly  to  claim  its  ancient  bed,  Hidden  Water 
piling  higher  its  hurtling  barrier;  then  a  louder  roar 
reverberated  through  the  valley  and  a  great  wall  of 
dancing  water  swept  down  the  canon  and  surged  into 
the  placid  lake.  On  its  breast  it  bore  brush  and  sticks, 
and  trees  that  waved  their  trunks  in  the  air  like  the 
arms  of  some  devouring  monster  as  they  swooped 
down  upon  the  dam.  At  last  the  belated  waters  from 
above  had  come,  the  outpourings  of  a  hundred  moun- 
tain creeks  that  had  belched  forth  into  the  Alamo  like 
summer  cloudbursts.  The  forefront  of  the  mighty 
storm-crest  lapped  over  the  presumptuous  barrier  in 
one  hissing,  high-flung  water-fall;  then  with  a  final 
roar  the  dam  went  out  and,  as  the  bowlders  groaned 
and  rumbled  beneath  the  flood,  the  Alamo  overleapt 
them  and  thundered  on. 

A  sudden  sea  of  yellow  water  spread  out  over  the 
lower  valley,  trees  bent  and  crashed  beneath  the 
weight  of  drift,  the  pasture  fence  ducked  under  and 
was  gone.  Still  irked  by  its  narrow  bed  the  Alamo 
swung  away  from  the  rock-bound  bench  where  the 
ranch  house  stood  and,  uprooting  everything  before 
it,  ploughed  a  new  channel  to  the  river.  As  it  swirled 
past,  Hardy  beheld  a  tangled  wreckage  of  cotton- 

[404] 


THE     FLOOD 

woods  and  sycamores,  their  tops  killed  by  the  drought, 
hurried  away  on  this  overplus  of  waters;  the  bare 
limbs  of  polo  verdes,  felled  by  his  own  axe;  and  sun- 
dried  skeletons  of  cattle,  light  as  cork,  dancing  and 
bobbing  as  they  drifted  past  the  ranch. 

The  drought  was  broken,  and  as  the  rain  poured 
down  it  washed  away  all  token  of  the  past.  Hence- 
forward there  would  be  no  sign  to  move  the  uneasy 
spirit;  no  ghastly  relic,  hinting  that  God  had  once  for- 
gotten them;  only  the  water-scarred  gulches  and 
canons,  and  the  ricks  of  driftwood,  piled  high  along 
the  valleys  in  memory  of  the  flood.  All  day  the  rain 
sluiced  down,  and  the  Alamo  went  wild  in  its  might, 
throwing  a  huge  dam  across  the  broad  bed  of  the 
river  itself.  But  when  at  last  in  the  dead  of  night  the 
storm-crest  of  the  Salagua  burst  forth,  raging  from 
its  long  jostling  against  chasm  walls,  a  boom  like  a 
thunder  of  cannon  echoed  from  all  the  high  cliffs  by 
Hidden  Water;  and  the  warring  waters,  bellowing 
and  tumbling  in  their  titanic  fury,  joined  together  in  a 
long,  mad  race  to  the  sea. 

So  ended  the  great  flood;  and  in  the  morning  the 
sun  rose  up  clean  and  smiling,  making  a  diamond  of 
every  dew-drop.  Then  once  more  the  cattle  gathered 
about  the  house,  waiting  to  be  fed,  and  Hardy  went 
out  as  before  to  cut  sdhuaros.  On  the  second  day 
the  creek  went  down  and  the  cattle  from  the  other 

[405] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

bank  came  across,  lowing  for  their  share.  But  on  the 
third  day,  when  the  sprouts  began  to  show  on  the 
twining  stick-cactus,  the  great  herd  that  had  dogged 
his  steps  for  months  left  the  bitter  sahuaros  and  scat- 
tered across  the  mesa  like  children  on  a  picnic,  nipping 
eagerly  at  every  shoot. 

In  a  week  the  flowers  were  up  and  every  bush  was 
radiant  with  new  growth.  The  grass  crept  cut  in 
level  places,  and  the  flats  in  the  valley  turned  green, 
but  the  broad  expanse  of  Bronco  Mesa  still  lay  half- 
barren  from  paucity  of  seeds.  Where  the  earth  had 
been  torn  up  and  trampled  by  the  sheep  the  flood  had 
seized  upon  both  soil  and  seed  and  carried  them  away, 
leaving  nothing  but  gravel  and  broken  rocks;  the 
sheep-trails  had  turned  to  trenches,  the  washes  to 
gulches,  the  gulches  to  ravines;  the  whole  mesa  was 
criss-crossed  with  tiny  gullies  where  the  water  had 
hurried  away  —  but  every  tree  and  bush  was  in  its 
glory,  clothed  from  top  to  bottom  in  flaunting  green. 
Within  a  week  the  cattle  were  back  on  their  old 
ranges,  all  that  were  left  from  famine  and  drought. 
Some  there  were  that  died  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  too 
weak  to  regain  their  strength;  others  fell  sick  from 
overeating  and  lost  their  hard-earned  lives;  mothers 
remembered  calves  that  were  lost  and  bellowed  mourn- 
fully among  the  hills.  But  as  rain  followed  rain  and 
the  grass  matured  a  great  peace  settled  down  upon  the 

[406] 


THE     FLOOD 

land;  the  cows  grew  round-bellied  and  sleepy-eyed, 
the  bulls  began  to  roar  along  the  ridges,  and  the  Four 
Peaks  cattlemen  rode  forth  from  their  mountain 
valleys  to  see  how  their  neighbors  had  fared. 

They  were  a  hard-looking  bunch  of  men  when  they 
gathered  at  the  Dos  S  Ranch  to  plan  for  the  fall 
rodeo.  Heat  and  the  long  drought  had  lined  their 
faces  deep,  their  hands  were  worn  and  crabbed  from 
months  of  cutting  brush,  and  upon  them  all  was  the 
sense  of  bitter  defeat.  There  would  be  no  branding 
in  the  pens  that  Fall  —  the  spring  calves  were  all 
dead;  nor  was  there  any  use  in  gathering  beef  steers 
that  were  sure  to  run  short  weight;  there  was  nothing 
to  do,  in  fact,  but  count  up  their  losses  and  organize 
against  the  sheep.  It  had  been  a  hard  Summer,  but 
it  had  taught  them  that  they  must  stand  together  or 
they  were  lost.  There  was  no  one  now  who  talked 
of  waiting  for  Forest  Reserves,  or  of  diplomacy  and 
peace  —  every  man  was  for  war,  and  war  from  the 
jump  —  and  Jefferson  Creede  took  the  lead. 

"Fellers,"  he  said,  after  each  man  had  had  his  say, 
"there  's  only  one  way  to  stop  them  sheep,  and  that  is 
to  stop  the  first  band.  Never  mind  the  man  —  dam' 
a  herder,  you  can  buy  one  for  twenty  dollars  a  month 
—  git  the  sheep!  Now  suppose  we  stompede  the  first 
bunch  that  comes  on  our  range  and  scatter  'em  to  hell 
* —  that 's  fif-teen  thousand  dol-lars  gone!  God 

[407] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

A'mighty,  boys,  think  of  losin'  that  much  real  money 
when  you  're  on  the  make  like  Jim  Swope !  Wy,  Jim 
would  go  crazy,  he  'd  throw  a  fit  —  and,  more  than 
that,  fellers,"  he  added,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  confi- 
dential whisper,  "he  'd  go  round. 

"Well,  now,  what  ye  goin'  to  do?"  he  continued,  a 
crafty  gleam  coming  into  his  eye.  "Are  we  goin'  to 
f oiler  some  cow's  tail  around  until  they  jump  us 
again?  Are  we  goin'  to  leave  Rufe  here,  to  patrol  a 
hundred  miles  of  range  lone-handed?  Not  on  your 
life  —  not  me !  We  're  goin'  to  ride  this  range  by 
day's  works,  fellers,  and  the  first  bunch  of  sheep  we 
find  we  're  goin'  to  scatter  'em  like  shootin'  stars  — 
and  if  any  man  sees  Jasp  Swope  I  '11  jest  ask  him  to 
let  me  know.  Is  it  a  go?  All  right  —  and  I  '11  tell 
you  how  we  '11  do. 

"There  's  only  three  places  that  the  sheep  can  get 
in  on  us :  along  the  Alamo,  over  the  Juate,  or  around 
between  the  Peaks.  Well,  the  whole  caboodle  of  us 
will  camp  up  on  the  Alamo  somewhere,  and  we  '11  jest 
naturally  ride  them  three  ridges  night  and  day.  I  'm 
goin'  to  ask  one  of  you  fellers  to  ride  away  up  north 
and  foller  them  sheepmen  down,  so  they  can't  come 
a  circumbendibus  on  us  again.  I  'm  goin'  to  give 
'em  fair  warnin'  to  keep  off  of  our  upper  range,  and 
then  the  first  wool-pullin'  sheep-herder  that  sneaks  in 

[408] 


THE     FLOOD 

on  Bronco  Mesa  is  goin'  to  git  the  scare  of  his  life  — 
and  the  coyotes  is  goin'  to  git  his  sheep. 

"That 's  the  only  way  to  stop  'em!  W'y,  Jim 
Swope  would  run  sheep  on  his  mother's  grave  if  it 
was  n't  for  the  five  dollars  fine.  All  right,  then,  we  '11 
jest  fine  Mr.  Swope  fifteen  thousand  dollars  for 
comin'  in  on  our  range,  and  see  if  he  won't  go  around. 
There  's  only  one  thing  that  I  ask  of  you  fellers  — 
when  the  time  comes,  for  God's  sake  stick  together!" 

The  time  came  in  late  October,  when  the  sheep 
were  on  The  Rolls.  In  orderly  battalions  they 
drifted  past,  herd  after  herd,  until  there  were  ten  in 
sight.  If  any  sheepman  resented  the  silent  sentinels 
that  rode  along  the  rim  he  made  no  demonstration  of 
the  fact  —  and  yet,  for  some  reason  every  herd  sooner 
or  later  wandered  around  until  it  fetched  up  against 
the  dead  line.  There  were  fuzzy  chollas  farther  out 
that  got  caught  in  the  long  wool  and  hurt  the  shearers' 
hands ;  it  was  better  to  camp  along  the  Alamo,  where 
there  was  water  for  their  stock  —  so  the  simple- 
minded  herders  said,  trying  to  carry  off  their  bluff; 
but  when  Creede  scowled  upon  them  they  looked  away 
sheepishly.  The  padron  had  ordered  it  —  they  could 
say  no  more. 

"Muy  bien"  said  the  overbearing  Grande,  "and 
where  is  your  padron?" 

[409] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Quien  sabel"  replied  the  herders,  hiking  up  their 
shoulders  and  showing  the  palms  of  their  hands,  and 
"Who  knows"  it  was  to  the  end.  There  was  wise 
counsel  in  the  camp  of  the  sheepmen;  they  never  had 
trouble  if  they  could  avoid  it,  and  then  only  to  gain  a 
point.  But  it  was  this  same  far-seeing  policy  which, 
even  in  a  good  year  when  there  was  feed  everywhere, 
would  not  permit  them  to  spare  the  upper  range.  For 
two  seasons  with  great  toil  and  danger  they  had  fought 
their  way  up  onto  Bronco  Mesa  and  established  their 
right  to  graze  there  —  to  go  around  now  would  be  to 
lose  all  that  had  been  gained. 

But  for  once  the  cowmen  of  the  Four  Peaks  were 
equal  to  the  situation.  There  were  no  cattle  to  gather, 
no  day  herds  to  hold,  no  calves  to  brand  in  the  pens  — > 
every  man  was  riding  and  riding  hard.  There  was 
wood  on  every  peak  for  signal  fires  and  the  main 
camp  was  established  on  the  high  ridge  of  the  Juate, 
looking  north  and  south  and  west.  When  that  signal 
rose  up  against  the  sky  —  whether  it  was  a  smoke  by 
day  or  a  fire  by  night  —  every  man  was  to  quit  his 
post  and  ride  to  harry  the  first  herd.  Wherever  or 
however  it  came  in,  that  herd  was  to  be  destroyed,  not 
by  violence  nor  by  any  overt  act,  but  by  the  sheepmen's 
own  methods  —  strategy  and  stealth. 

For  once  there  was  no  loose  joint  in  the  cordon  of 
the  cowmen's  defence.  From  the  rim  of  the  Mogol- 

[410] 


THE     FLOOD 

Ions  to  the  borders  of  Bronco  Mesa  the  broad  trail  of 
the  sheep  was  marked  and  noted ;  their  shif tings  and 
doublings  were  followed  and  observed;  the  bitterness 
of  Tonto  cowmen,  crazy  over  their  wrongs,  was  poured 
into  ears  that  had  already  listened  to  the  woes  of 
Pleasant  Valley.  When  at  last  Jasper  Swope's 
boss  herder,  Juan  Alvarez,  the  same  man-killing  Mex- 
ican that  Jeff  Creede  had  fought  two  years  before, 
turned  suddenly  aside  and  struck  into  the  old  Shep 
Thomas  trail  that  comes  out  into  the  deep  crotch  be- 
tween the  Peaks,  a  horseman  in  chaparejos  rode  on 
before  him,  spurring  madly  to  light  the  signal  fires. 
That  night  a  fire  blazed  up  from  the  shoulder  of  the 
western  mountain  and  was  answered  from  the  Juate. 
At  dawn  ten  men  were  in  the  saddle,  riding  swiftly, 
with  Jefferson  Creede  at  their  head. 

It  was  like  an  open  book  to  the  cowmen  now,  that 
gathering  of  the  sheep  along  the  Alamo  —  a  ruse,  a 
feint  to  draw  them  away  from  the  Peaks  while  the 
blow  was  struck  from  behind.  Only  one  man  was  left 
to  guard  that  threatened  border  —  Ruf us  Hardy,  the 
man  of  peace,  who  had  turned  over  his  pistol  to  the 
boss.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  for  him  when  he  saw 
the  boys  start  out  on  this  illicit  adventure ;  but  for  once 
he  restrained  himself  and  let  it  pass.  The  war  would 
not  be  settled  at  a  blow. 

At  the  shoulder  of  the  Peak  the  posse  of  cowmera 


HIDDEN    WATER 

found  Jim  Clark,  his  shaps  frayed  and  his  hat  slouched 
to  a  shapeless  mass  from  long  beating  through  the 
brush,  and  followed  in  his  lead  to  a  pocket  valley, 
tucked  away  among  the  cedars,  where  they  threw  off 
their  packs  and  camped  while  Jim  and  Creede  went 
forward  to  investigate.  It  was  a  rough  place,  that 
crotch  between  the  Peaks,  and  Shep  Thomas  had  cut 
his  way  through  chaparral  that  stood  horse-high  be- 
fore he  won  the  southern  slope.  To  the  north  the 
brush  covered  all  the  ridges  in  a  dense  thicket,  and  it 
was  there  that  the  cow  camp  was  hid ;  but  on  the 
southern  slope,  where  the  sun  had  baked  out  the  soil, 
the  mountain  side  stretched  away  bare  and  rocky, 
broken  by  innumerable  ravines  which  came  together 
in  a  redondo  or  rounded  valley  and  then  plunged 
abruptly  into  the  narrow  defile  of  a  box  canon.  This 
was  the  middle  fork,  down  which  Shep  Thomas  had 
made  his  triumphal  march  the  year  before,  and  down 
which  Juan  Alvarez  would  undoubtedly  march  again. 
Never  but  once  had  the  sheep  been  in  that  broad 
valley,  and  the  heavy  rains  had  brought  out  long  tufts 
of  grama  grass  from  the  bunchy  roots  along  the  hill- 
sides. As  Creede  and  Jim  Clark  crept  up  over  the 
brow  of  the  western  ridge  and  looked  down  upon  it 
they  beheld  a  herd  of  forty  or  fifty  wild  horses,  grazing 
contentedly  along  the  opposite  hillside ;  and  far  below, 
where  the  valley  opened  out  into  the  redondo,,  they 

[412] 


THE    FLOOD 

saw  a  band  of  their  own  tame  horses  feeding.  Work- 
ing in  from  either  side  —  the  wild  horses  from  the 
north,  where  they  had  retreated  to  escape  the  drought ; 
the  range  animals  from  the  south,  where  the  sheep  had 
fed  off  the  best  grass  —  they  had  made  the  broad 
mountain  valley  a  rendezvous,  little  suspecting  the 
enemy  that  was  creeping  in  upon  their  paradise.  Al- 
ready the  distant  bleating  of  the  sheep  was  in  the  air; 
a  sheepman  rode  up  to  the  summit,  looked  over  at  the 
promised  land  and  darted  back,  and  as  the  first  strug- 
gling mass  of  leaders  poured  out  from  the  cut  trail  and 
drifted  down  into  the  valley  the  wild  stallions  shook 
out  their  manes  in  alarm  and  trotted  farther  away. 

A  second  band  of  outlaws,  unseen  before,  came  gal- 
loping along  the  western  mountain  side,  snorting  at 
the  clangor  and  the  rank  smell  of  the  sheep,  and 
Creede  eyed  them  with  professional  interest  as  the 
leaders  trotted  past.  Many  times  in  the  old  days  he 
had  followed  along  those  same  ridges,  rounding  up  the 
wild  horses  and  sending  them  dashing  down  the 
canon,  so  that  Hardy  could  rush  out  from  his  hiding 
place  and  make  his  throw.  It  was  a  natural  hold-up 
ground,  that  redondo,  and  they  had  often  talked  of 
building  a  horse  trap  there;  but  so  far  they  had 
done  no  more  than  rope  a  chance  horse  and  let  the 
rest  go  charging  down  the  box  canon  and  out  the 
other  end  onto  Bronco  Mesa. 

[413] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

It  was  still  early  in  the  morning  when  Juan 
Alvarez  rode  down  the  pass  and  invaded  the  forbid- 
den land.  He  had  the  name  of  a  bad  hombre,  this 
boss  herder  of  Jasper  Swope,  the  kind  that  cuts 
notches  on  his  rifle  stock.  Only  one  man  had  ever 
made  Juan  eat  dirt,  and  that  man  now  watched  him 
from  the  high  rocks  with  eyes  that  followed  every 
move  with  the  unblinking  intentness  of  a  mountain 
lion. 

"Uhr-r!  Laugh,  you  son  of  a  goat,"  growled 
Creede,  as  the  big  Mexican  pulled  up  his  horse  and 
placed  one  hand  complacently  on  his  hip.  "Sure, 
make  yourself  at  home,"  he  muttered,  smiling  as  his 
enemy  drifted  his  sheep  confidently  down  into  the 
redondOj  "you  're  goin'  jest  where  I  want  ye.  Come 
sundown  and  we  '11  go  through  you  like  a  house  afire. 
If  he  beds  in  the  redondo  let 's  shoot  'em  into  that  box 
canon,  Jim,"  proposed  the  big  cowman,  turning  to 
his  partner,  "and  when  they  come  out  the  other  end 
all  hell  would  n't  stop  'em  —  they  '11  go  forty  ways 
for  Sunday." 

"Suits  me,"  replied  Jim,  "but  say,  what 's  the 
matter  with  roundin'  up  some  of  them  horses  and 
sendin'  'em  in  ahead?  That  boss  Mexican  is  goin'  to 
take  a  shot  at  some  of  us  fellers  if  we  do  the  work 
ourselves." 

"That 's    right,    Jim,"     said     Creede,    squinting 

[414] 


THE     FLOOD 

shrewdly  at  the  three  armed  herders.  ffl  'II  tell  ye, 
let's  send  them  wild  horses  through  'em!  Holy 
smoke!  jest  think  of  a  hundred  head  of  them  out- 
laws comin'  down  the  canon  at  sundown  and  ham- 
merin'  through  that  bunch  of  sheep!  And  we  don't 
need  to  git  within  gunshot  I" 

"Fine  and  dandy,"  commented  Jim,  "but  how  're 
you  goin'  to  hold  your  horses  to  it?  Them  herders 
will  shoot  off  their  guns  and  turn  'em  back." 

"Well,  what 's  the  matter  with  usin'  our  tame 
horses  for  a  hold-up  herd  and  then  sendin'  the  whole 
bunch  through  together?  They  '11  strike  for  the  box 
canon,  you  can  bank  on  that,  and  if  Mr.  Juan  will 
only  -  But  Mr.  Juan  was  not  so  accommodating. 
Instead  of  holding  his  sheep  in  the  redondo  he  drifted 
them  up  on  the  mountain  side,  where  he  could  over- 
look the  country. 

"Well,  I  '11  fix  you  yet,"  observed  Creede,  and  leav- 
ing Jim  to  watch  he  scuttled  'down  to  his  horse  and 
rode  madly  back  to  camp. 

That  afternoon  as  Juan  Alvarez  stood  guard  upon 
a  hill  he  saw,  far  off  to  the  west,  four  horsemen,  riding 
slowly  across  the  mesa.  Instantly  he  whistled  to  his 
herders,  waving  his  arms  and  pointing,  and  in  a  panic 
of  apprehension  they  circled  around  their  sheep, 
crouching  low  and  punching  them  along  until  the  herd 
was  out  of  sight.  And  still  the  four  horsemen  rode 

[415] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

on,  drawing  nearer,  but  passing  to  the  south.  But 
the  sheep,  disturbed  and  separated  by  the  change,  now 
set  up  a  plaintive  bleating,  and  the  boss  herder,  never 
suspecting  the  trap  that  was  being  laid  for  him, 
scrambled  quickly  down  from  his  lookout  and  drove 
them  into  the  only  available  hiding-place  —  the  box 
canon.  Many  years  in  the  sheep  business  had  taught 
him  into  what  small  compass  a  band  of  sheep  can  be 
pressed,  and  he  knew  that,  once  thrown  together  in  the 
dark  canon,  they  would  stop  their  telltale  blatting  and 
go  to  sleep.  Leaving  his  herders  to  hold  them  there 
he  climbed  back  up  to  his  peak  and  beheld  the  cow- 
boys in  the  near  distance,  but  still  riding  east. 

An  hour  passed  and  the  sheep  had  bedded  together 
in  silence,  each  standing  with  his  head  under  another's 
belly,  as  is  their  wont,  when  the  four  horsemen,  headed 
by  Jeff  Creede  himself,  appeared  suddenly  on  the  dis- 
tant mountain  side,  riding  hard  along  the  slope.  Gal- 
loping ahead  of  them  in  an  avalanche  of  rocks  was  the 
band  of  loose  horses  that  Alvarez  had  seen  in  the 
redondo  that  morning,  and  with  the  instinct  of  their 
kind  they  were  making  for  their  old  stamping  ground. 

Once  more  the  sheepman  leaped  up  from  his  place 
and  scampered  down  the  hill  to  his  herd,  rounding  up 
his  pack  animals  as  he  ran.  With  mad  haste  he 
shooed  them  into  the  dark  mouth  of  the  canon,  and 
then  hurried  in  after  them  like  a  badger  that,  hearing 

[416] 


THE     FLOOD 

the  sound  of  pursuers,  backs  into  some  neighboring 
hole  until  nothing  is  visible  but  teeth  and  claws.  So 
far  the  boss  herder  had  reasoned  well.  His  sheep 
were  safe  behind  him  and  his  back  was  against  a  rock ; 
a  hundred  men  could  not  dislodge  him  from  his  posi- 
tion if  it  ever  came  to  a  fight;  but  he  had  not 
reckoned  upon  the  devilish  cunning  of  horse-taming 
Jeff  Creede.  Many  a  time  in  driving  outlaws  to  the 
river  he  had  employed  that  same  ruse  —  showing  him- 
self casually  in  the  distance  and  working  closer  as  they 
edged  away  until  he  had  gained  his  end. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  Creede  and  his  cowboys 
came  clattering  down  the  mountain  from  the  east  and 
spurred  across  the  redondo,  whooping  and  yelling  as 
they  rounded  up  their  stock.  For  half  an  hour  they 
rode  and  hollered  and  swore,  apparently  oblivious  of 
the  filigree  of  sheep  tracks  with  which  the  ground  was 
stamped;  then  as  the  remuda  quieted  down  they 
circled  slowly  around  their  captives,  swinging  their 
wide-looped  ropes  and  waiting  for  the  grand  stam- 
pede. 

The  dusk  was  beginning  to  gather  in  the  low  valley 
and  the  weird  evensong  of  the  coyotes  was  at  its  height 
when  suddenly  from  the  north  there  came  a  rumble, 
as  if  a  storm  gathered  above  the  mountain ;  then  with 
a  roar  and  the  thunder  of  distant  hoofs,  the  crashing 
of  brush  and  the  nearer  click  of  feet  against  the  rocks 
27  [417] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

a  torrent  of  wild  horses  poured  over  the  summit  of 
the  pass  and  swept  down  into  the  upper  valley  like  an 
avalanche.  Instantly  Creede  and  his  cowboys  scat- 
tered, spurring  out  on  either  wing  to  turn  them  fair 
for  the  box  canon,  and  the  tame  horses,  left  suddenly 
to  their  own  devices,  stood  huddled  together  in  the 
middle  of  the  redondo,  fascinated  by  the  swift  ap- 
proach of  the  outlaws.  Down  the  middle  of  the  broad 
valley  they  came,  flying  like  the  wind  before  their 
pursuers ;  at  sight  of  Creede  and  his  cowboys  and  the 
familiar  hold-up  herd  they  swerved  and  slackened 
their  pace;  then  as  the  half -circle  of  yelling  cowmen 
closed  in  from  behind  they  turned  and  rushed  straight 
for  the  box  canon,  their  flint-like  feet  striking  like 
whetted  knives  as  cliey  poured  into  the  rocky  pass. 
Catching  the  contagion  of  the  flight  the  tame  horses 
joined  in  of  their  own  accord,  and  a  howl  of  exultation 
went  up  from  the  Four  Peaks  cowmen  as  they  rushed 
in  to  complete  the  overthrow.  In  one  mad  whirl  they 
mingled  —  wild  horses  and  tame,  and  wilder  riders 
behind;  and  before  that  irresistible  onslaught  Juan 
Alvarez  and  his  herders  could  only  leap  up  and  cling 
to  the  rocky  cliffs  like  bats.  And  the  sheep !  A  min- 
ute after,  there  were  no  sheep.  Those  that  were  not 
down  were  gone  —  scattered  to  the  winds,  lost,  anni- 
hilated! 

Seized  by  the  mad  contagion,  the  cowboys  them- 

[4.18] 


THE     FLOOD 

selves  joined  in  the  awful  rout,  spurring  through  the 
dark  canon  like  devils  let  loose  from  hell.  There  was 
only  one  who  kept  his  head  and  waited,  and  that  was 
Jefferson  Creede.  Just  as  the  last  wild  rider  flashed 
around  the  corner  he  jumped  his  horse  into  the  canon 
and,  looking  around,  caught  sight  of  Juan  Alvarez, 
half -distraught,  crouching  like  a  monkey  upon  a  nar- 
row ledge. 

"Well,  what  — the  — hell!"  he  cried,  with  well- 
feigned  amazement.  ffl  did  n't  know  you  was  here!" 

The  sheepman  swallowed  and  blinked  his  eyes,  that 
stood  out  big  and  round  like  an  owl's. 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  he  said. 

"But  it  would  n't  'a'  made  a  dam'  bit  of  difference 
if  I  had !"  added  Creede,  and  then,  flashing  his  teeth 
in  a  hectoring  laugh,  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and 
went  thundering  after  his  fellows. 

Not  till  that  moment  did  the  evil-eyed  Juan 
Alvarez  sense  the  trick  that  had  been  played  upon 
him. 

"Cdbrone!"  he  screamed,  and  whipping  out  his 
pistol  he  emptied  it  after  Creede,  but  the  bullets  spat- 
tered harmlessly  against  the  rocks. 

Early  the  next  morning  Jefferson  Creede  rode 
soberly  along  the  western  rim  of  Bronco  Mesa,  his 
huge  form  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  gazing  down 
upon  the  sheep  camps  that  lay  along  the  Alamo ;  and 

[419] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  simple-minded  Mexicans  looked  up  at  him  in 
awe.  But  when  the  recreant  herders  of  Juan 
Alvarez  came  skulking  across  the  mesa  and  told  the 
story  of  the  stampede,  a  sudden  panic  broke  out  that 
spread  like  wildfire  from  camp  to  camp.  Orders  or 
no  orders,  the  timid  Mexicans  threw  the  sawhorses 
onto  their  burros,  packed  up  their  blankets  and 
moved,  driving  their  bawling  sheep  far  out  over  The 
Rolls,  where  before  the  chollas  had  seemed  so  bad. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  passed  every  day  beneath  some 
rock  lying  above  the  trail,  until,  looking  up,  they  saw 
that  it  was  a  lion,  crouching  to  make  his  spring.  For 
years  they  had  gazed  in  wonder  at  the  rage  and  vio- 
lence of  Grande  Creede,  marvelling  that  the  padron 
could  stand  against  it;  but  now  suddenly  the  big  man 
had  struck,  and  bravo  Juan  Alvarez  had  lost  his 
sheep.  Hunt  as  long  as  he  would  he  could  not  bring 
in  a  tenth  of  them.  Ay,  que  maid!  The  boss  would 
fire  Juan  and  make  him  walk  to  town;  but  they  who 
by  some  miracle  had  escaped,  would  flee  while  there 
was  yet  time. 

For  two  days  Creede  rode  along  the  rim  of  Bronco 
Mesa  —  that  dead  line  which  at  last  the  sheepmen 
had  come  to  respect, —  and  when  at  last  he  sighted 
Jim  Swope  coming  up  from  Hidden  Water  with  two 
men  who  might  be  officers  of  the  law  he  laughed  and 

[420] 


THE    FLOOD 

went  to  meet  them.  Year  in  and  year  out  Jim 
Swope  had  been  talking  law  —  law;  now  at  last  they 
would  see  this  law,  and  find  out  what  it  could  do. 
One  of  the  men  with  Swope  was  a  deputy  sheriff, 
Creede  could  tell  that  by  his  star;  but  the  other  man 
might  be  almost  anything  —  a  little  fat  man  with  a 
pointed  beard  and  congress  shoes ;  a  lawyer,  perhaps, 
or  maybe  some  town  detective. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Creede?"  inquired  the  deputy,  casually 
flashing  his  star  as  they  met  beside  the  trail. 

"That 's  my  name,"  replied  Creede.  "What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Creede,"  responded  the  officer,  eying 
his  man  carefully,  "I  come  up  here  to  look  into  the 
killing  of  Juan  Alvarez,  a  Mexican  sheep-herder." 

"The  killin'?"  echoed  Creede,  astounded. 

"That 's  right,"  snapped  the  deputy  sheriff,  trying 
to  get  the  jump  on  him.  "What  do  you  know  about 
it?" 

"Who  —  me?"  answered  the  cowman,  his  eyes 
growing  big  and  earnest  as  he  grasped  the  news. 
"Not  a  thing.  The  last  time  I  saw  Juan  Alvarez  he 
was  standin'  on  a  ledge  of  rocks  way  over  yonder  in 
the  middle  fork: — and  he  certainly  was  all  right 
then." 

"Yes  ?     And  when  was  this,  Mr.  Creede  ?" 

[421] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Day  before  yesterday,  about  sundown." 

"Day  before  yesterday,  eh?  And  just  what  was 
you  doin'  over  there  at  the  time?" 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  ye,"  began  Creede  circumstantially. 
"Me  and  Ben  Reavis  and  a  couple  of  the  boys  had 
gone  over  toward  the  Pocket  to  catch  up  our  horses. 
They  turned  back  on  us  and  finally  we  run  'em  into 
that  big  redondo  up  in  the  middle  fork.  I  reckon  we 
was  ridin'  back  and  forth  half  an  hour  out  there  gittin' 
'em  stopped,  and  we  never  heard  a  peep  out  of  this 
Mexican,  but  jest  as  we  got  our  remuda  quieted  down 
and  was  edgin'  in  to  rope  out  the  ones  we  wanted,  here 
comes  a  big  band  of  wild  horses  that  the  other  boys 
had  scared  up  over  behind  the  Peaks,  roaring  down 
the  canon  and  into  us.  Of  course,  there  was  nothin' 
for  it  then  but  to  git  out  of  the  way  and  let  'em  pass, 
and  we  did  it,  dam'  quick'.  Well,  sir,  that  bunch  of 
wild  horses  went  by  us  like  the  mill  tails  of  hell,  and 
of  course  our  remuda  stompeded  after  'em  and  the 
whole  outfit  went  bilin'  through  the  box  canon,  where 
it  turned  out  Juan  Alvarez  had  been  hidin'  his  sheep. 
That 's  all  I  know  about  it." 

"Well,  did  you  have  any  trouble  of  any  kind  with 
this  deceased  Mexican,  Mr.  Creede?  Of  course  you 
don't  need  to  answer  that  if  it  will  incriminate  you, 
but  I  just  wanted  to  know,  you  understand." 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  responded  the  cowman,  wav- 

[422] 


THE    FLOOD 

ing  the  suggestion  aside  with  airy  unconcern.  "This 
is  the  first  I  Ve  heard  of  any  killin',  but  bein'  as 
you  're  an  officer  I  might  as  well  come  through  with 
what  I  know.  I  don't  deny  for  a  minute  that  I  Ve 
had  trouble  with  Juan.  I  had  a  fist  fight  with  him 
a  couple  of  years  ago,  and  I  licked  him,  too  —  but 
seein'  him  up  on  that  ledge  of  rocks  when  I  rode 
through  after  my  horses  was  certainly  one  of  the  big 
surprises  of  my  life." 

"Uh,  you  was  surprised,  was  ye?"  snarled  Swope, 
who  had  been  glowering  at  him  malignantly  through 
his  long  recital.  "Mebbe  — " 

"Yes,  I  was  surprised!"  retorted  Creede  angrily. 
"And  I  was  like  the  man  that  received  the  gold- 
headed  cane  —  I  was  pleased,  too,  if  that 's  what 
you  're  drivin'  at.  I  don't  doubt  you  and  Jasp  sent 
that  dam'  Greaser  in  there  to  sheep  us  out,  and  if  he 
got  killed  you  Ve  got  yourself  to  thank  for  it.  He 
had  no  business  in  there,  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the 
second  place,  I  gave  you  fair  warnin'  to  keep  'im 
out." 

"You  hear  that,  Mr.  Officer?"  cried  the  sheepman. 
"He  admits  making  threats  against  the  deceased; 
he—" 

"Just  a  moment,  just  a  moment,  Mr.  Swope,"  in- 
terposed the  deputy  sheriff  pacifically.  "Did  you 
have  any  words  with  this  Juan  Alvarez,  Mr.  Creede, 


HIDDEN    WATER 

when  you  saw  him  in  the  canon?  Any  trouble  of  any 
kind?" 

"No,  we  didn't  have  what  you  might  call  trouble 
* —  that  is,  nothin'  serious." 

"Well,  just  what  words  passed  between  you?  This 
gentleman  here  is  the  coroner ;  we  Ve  got  the  body 
down  at  the  ranch  house,  and  we  may  want  to  sup- 
peenie  you  for  the  inquest." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  Creede  politely. 
"Well,  all  they  was  to  it  was  this:  when  I  rode  in 
there  and  see  that  dam'  Mexican  standin'  up  on  a 
ledge  with  his  eyes  bulgin'  out,  I  says,  'What  in  hell 
-I  didn't  know  you  was  here!'  And  he  says, 
'Oh,  that 's  all  right.'  " 

"Jest  listen  to  the  son-of-a-gun  lie!"  yelled  Jim 
Swope,  beside  himself  with  rage.  " Listen  to  him! 
He  said  that  was  all  right,  did  he?  Three  thousand 
head  of  sheep  stompeded  — " 

"Yes,"  roared  Creede,  "he  said :  'That 's  all  right.' 
And  what 's  more,  there  was  another  Mexican  there 
that  heard  him!  Now  how  about  it,  officer;  how 
much  have  I  got  to  take  off  this  dam'  sheep  puller 
before  I  git  the  right  to  talk  back?  Is  he  the  judge 
and  jury  in  this  matter,  or  is  he  just  a  plain  buttin- 
sky?" 

"I  '11  have  to  ask  you  gentlemen  to  key  down  a 

[424] 


THE    FLOOD 

little,"  replied  the  deputy  noncommittally,  "and  let 's 
get  through  with  this  as  soon  as  possible.  Now,  Mr. 
Creede,  you  seem  to  be  willing  to  talk  about  this 
matter.  I  understand  that  there  was  some  shots 
fired  at  the  time  you  speak  of." 

"Sure  thing,"  replied  Creede.  "Juan  took  a 
couple  of  shots  at  me  as  I  was  goin'  down  the  canon. 
He  looked  so  dam'  funny,  sittin'  up  on  that  ledge  like 
a  monkey- faced  owl,  that  I  could  n't  help  laughin', 
and  of  course  it  riled  him  some.  But  that 's  all  right 

-  I  would  n't  hold  it  up  against  a  dead  man." 

The  deputy  sheriff  laughed  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
the  coroner  chuckled,  too.  The  death  of  a  Mexican 
sheep-herder  was  not  a  very  sombre  matter  to  gentle- 
men of  their  profession. 

"I  suppose  you  were  armed?"  inquired  the  coroner 
casually. 

"I  had  my  six-shooter  in  my  shaps,  all  right." 

"Ah,  is  that  the  gun?    What  calibre  is  it?" 

"A  forty-five." 

The  officers  of  the  law  glanced  at  each  other  know- 
ingly, and  the  deputy  turned  back  toward  the  ranch. 

"The  deceased  was  shot  with  a  thirty-thirty,"  ob- 
served the  coroner  briefly,  and  there  the  matter  was 
dropped. 

"Umm,  a  thirty-thirty,"  muttered  Creede,  "now 

[425] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

who  in  — "  He  paused  and  nodded  his  head,  and  a 
look  of  infinite  cunning  came  into  his  face  as  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  retreating  posse. 

"Bill  Johnson!"  he  said,  and  then  he  laughed  - 
but  it  was  not  a  pleasant  laugh. 


[426] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PORTENTS    OF    WAR 

npHERE  were  signs  of  impending  war  on  Bronco 
Mesa.  As  God  sent  the  rain  and  the  flowers  and 
grass  sprang  up  they  grappled  with  each  other  like 
murderers,  twining  root  about  root  for  the  water, 
fighting  upward  for  the  light  —  and  when  it  was  over 
the  strongest  had  won.  Every  tree  and  plant  on  that 
broad  range  was  barbed  and  fanged  against  assault; 
every  creature  that  could  not  flee  was  armed  for  its 
own  defence;  it  was  a  land  of  war,  where  the  strong- 
est always  won.  What  need  was  there  for  words? 
Juan  Alvarez  was  dead,  shot  from  some  distant  peak 
while  rounding  up  his  sheep  —  and  his  sheep,  too, 
were  dead. 

They  buried  the  boss  herder  under  a  pile  of  rocks 
on  Lookout  Point  and  planted  a  cross  above  him,  not 
for  its  Christian  significance,  nor  yet  because  Juan 
was  a  good  Catholic,  but  for  the  Mexicans  to  look  at 
in  the  Spring,  when  the  sheep  should  come  to  cross. 
Jim  Swope  attended  to  this  himself,  after  the  coroner 
had  given  over  the  body,  and  for  a  parting  word  he 
cursed  Jeff  Creede. 

[427] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Then  for  a  day  the  world  took  notice  of  their 
struggle  —  the  great  outside  world  that  had  left  them 
to  fight  it  out.  Three  thousand  head  of  sheep  had 
been  killed;  mutton  enough  to  feed  a  great  city  for  a 
day  had  been  destroyed  —  and  all  in  a  quarrel  over 
public  land.  The  word  crept  back  to  Washington, 
stripped  to  the  bare  facts  —  three  thousand  sheep  and 
their  herder  killed  by  cattlemen  on  the  proposed 
Salagua  Reserve  —  and  once  more  the  question  rose, 
Why  was  not  that  Salagua  Reserve  proclaimed  ?  No 
one  answered.  There  was  another  sheep  and  cattle 
war  going  on  up  in  Wyoming,  and  the  same  ques- 
tion was  being  asked  about  other  proposed  reserves. 
But  when  Congress  convened  in  December  the  facts 
began  to  sift  out:  there  was  a  combination  of  rail- 
road and  lumber  interests,  big  cattlemen,  sheepmen, 
and  "land-grabbers"  that  was  "against  any  interfer- 
ence on  the  part  of  the  Federal  Government,"  and 
"opposed  to  any  change  of  existing  laws  and  cus- 
toms as  to  the  grazing  of  live  stock  upon  the  public 
domain."  This  anomalous  organization  was  fighting, 
and  for  years  had  been  fighting,  the  policy  of  the  ad- 
ministration to  create  forest  reserves  and  protect  the 
public  land;  and,  by  alliances  with  other  anti-admin- 
istration forces  in  the  East,  had  the  President  and  his 
forester  at  their  mercy.  There  would  be  no  forestry 
legislation  that  Winter  —  so  the  newspapers  said. 

[428] 


PORTENTS    OF    WAR 

But  that  made  no  difference  to  the  Four  Peaks 
country. 

Only  faint  echoes  of  the  battle  at  Washington 
reached  the  cowmen's  ears,  and  they  no  longer  gave 
them  any  heed.  For  years  they  had  been  tolled  along 
by  false  hopes;  they  had  talked  eagerly  of  Forest 
Rangers  to  draw  two-mile  circles  around  their  poor 
ranches  and  protect  them  from  the  sheep;  they  had 
longed  to  lease  the  range,  to  pay  grazing  fees,  any- 
thing for  protection.  But  now  they  had  struck  the 
first  blow  for  themselves,  and  behold,  on  the  instant 
the  sheep  went  round,  the  grass  crept  back  onto  the 
scarred  mesa,  the  cattle  grew  fat  on  the  range !  Juan 
Alvarez,  to  be  sure,  was  dead;  but  their  hands  were 
clean,  let  the  sheepmen  say  what  they  would.  What 
were  a  few  sheep  carcasses  up  on  the  high  mesa? 
They  only  matched  the  cattle  that  had  died  off  during 
the  drought.  When  they  met  a  sheep-herder  now 
he  gave  them  the  trail. 

Tucked  away  in  a  far  corner  of  the  Territory,  with- 
out money,  friends,  or  influence,  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  fight.  All  nature  seemed  conspiring  to  en- 
courage them  in  their  adventure  —  the  Winter  came 
on  early,  with  heavy  rains ;  the  grass  took  root  again 
among  the  barren  rocks  and  when,  in  a  belated  rodeo , 
they  gathered  their  beef  steers,  they  received  the  high- 
est selling  price  in  years.  All  over  Arizona,  and  in 

[429] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

California,  New  Mexico,  and  Texas,  the  great 
drought  had  depleted  the  ranges ;  the  world's  supply 
of  beef  had  been  cut  down;  feeders  were  scarce  in  the 
alfalfa  fields  of  Moroni;  fat  cattle  were  called  for 
from  Kansas  City  to  Los  Angeles;  and  suddenly  the 
despised  cowmen  of  the  Four  Peaks  saw  before  them 
the  great  vision  which  always  hangs  at  the  end  of  the 
rainbow  in  Arizona  —  a  pot  of  gold,  if  the  sheep  went 
around.  And  what  would  make  the  sheep  go  around  ? 
Nothing  but  a  thirty- thirty. 

The  price  of  mutton  had  gone  up  too,  adding  a  third 
to  the  fortune  of  every  sheepman ;  the  ewes  were  lamb- 
ing on  the  desert,  bringing  forth  a  hundred  per  cent 
or  better,  with  twins  —  and  every  lamb  must  eat !  To 
the  hundred  thousand  sheep  that  had  invaded  Bronco 
Mesa  there  was  added  fifty  thousand  more,  and  they 
must  all  eat.  It  was  this  that  the  sheepmen  had  fore- 
seen when  they  sent  Juan  Alvarez  around  to  raid  the 
upper  range  —  not  that  they  needed  the  feed  then, 
but  they  would  need  it  in  the  Spring,  and  need  it  bad^ 
So  they  had  tried  to  break  the  way  and,  failing,  had 
sworn  to  come  in  arms.  It  was  a  fight  for  the  grass, 
nothing  less,  and  there  was  no  law  to  stop  it. 

As  the  news  of  the  trouble  filtered  out  and  crept 
into  obscure  corners  of  the  daily  press,  Hardy  re- 
ceived a  long  hortatory  letter  from  Judge  Ware ;  and, 
before  he  could  answer  it,  another.  To  these  he  an- 

[430] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

swered  briefly  that  the  situation  could  only  be  relieved 
by  some  form  of  Federal  control;  that,  personally, 
his  sympathies  were  with  the  cattlemen,  but,  in  case 
the  judge  was  dissatisfied  with  his  services  -  But 
Judge  Ware  had  learned  wisdom  from  a  past  experi-^ 
ence  and  at  this  point  he  turned  the  correspondence 
over  to  Lucy.  Then  in  a  sudden  fit  of  exasperation 
he  packed  his  grip  and  hastened  across  the  continent 
to  Washington,  to  ascertain  for  himself  why  the 
Salagua  Forest  Reserve  was  not  proclaimed.  As  for 
Lucy,  her  letters  were  as  carefully  considered  as  ever 
—  she  wrote  of  everything  except  the  sheep  and  Kitty 
Bonnair.  Not  since  she  went  away  had  she  mentioned 
Kitty,  nor  had  Hardy  ever  inquired  about  her.  In 
idle  moments  he  sometimes  wondered  what  had  been 
in  that  unread  letter  which  he  had  burned  with 
Creede's,  but  he  never  wrote  in  answer,  and  his  heart 
seemed  still  and  dead.  For  years  the  thought  of 
Kitty  Bonnair  had  haunted  him,  rising  up  in  the  long 
silence  of  the  desert ;  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of  the 
round-up  the  vision  of  her  supple  form,  the  laughter 
of  her  eyes,  the  succession  of  her  moods,  had  danced 
before  his  eyes  in  changing  pictures,  summoned  up 
from  the  cherished  past;  but  nowr  his  mind  was  filled 
with  other  things.  Somewhere  in  the  struggle  against 
sheep  and  the  drought  he  had  lost  her,  as  a  man  loses 
a  keepsake  which  he  has  carried  so  long  against  his 

[431] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

heart  that  its  absence  is  as  unnoticed  as  its  presence, 
and  he  never  knows  himself  the  poorer.  After  the 
drought  had  come  the  sheep,  the  stampede,  fierce  quar- 
rels with  the  Swopes,  threats  and  counter-threats  — 
and  then  the  preparations  for  war.  The  memory  of 
the  past  faded  away  and  another  thought  now  haunted 
his  mind,  though  he  never  spoke  it  —  when  the  time 
came,  would  he  fight,  or  would  he  stay  with  Lucy  and 
let  Jeff  go  out  alone?  It  was  a  question  never  an- 
swered, but  every  day  he  rode  out  without  his  gun, 
and  Creede  took  that  for  a  sign. 

As  the  Rio  Salagua,  swollen  with  winter  rains,  rose 
up  like  a  writhing  yellow  serpent  and  cast  itself 
athwart  the  land,  it  drew  a  line  from  east  to  west 
which  neither  sheep  nor  cattle  could  cross,  and  the 
cowmen  who  had  lingered  about  Hidden  Water  rode 
gayly  back  to  their  distant  ranches,  leaving  the  peace- 
ful Dos  S  where  Sallie  Winship  had  hung  her  cher- 
ished lace  curtains  and  Kitty  Bonnair  and  Lucy 
Ware  had  made  a  home,  almost  a  total  wreck.  Sheep, 
drought,  and  flood  had  passed  over  it  in  six  months' 
time;  the  pasture  fence  was  down,  the  corrals  were 
half  dismantled,  and  the  bunk-room  looked  like  a  de- 
serted grading  camp.  For  a  week  Creede  and  Hardy 
cleaned  up  and  rebuilt,  but  every  day,  in  spite  of  his 
partner's  efforts  to  divert  his  mind,  Jeff  grew  more 
restless  and  uneasy.  Then  one  lonely  evening  he 

[432] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

went  over  to  the  corner  where  his  money  was  buried 
and  began  to  dig. 

" What  —  the  —  hell  —  is  the  matter  with  this 
place?"  he  exclaimed,  looking  up  from  his  work  as  if 
he  expected  the  roof  to  drop.  "Ever  since  Tommy 
died  it  gits  on  my  nerves,  bad."  He  rooted  out  his 
tomato  can  and  stuffed  a  roll  of  bills  carelessly  into 
his  overalls  pocket.  "Got  any  mail  to  go  out?"  he 
inquired,  coming  back  to  the  fire,  and  Hardy  under- 
stood without  more  words  that  Jeff  was  going  on  an- 
other drunk. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  might  write  a  letter  to  the 
boss.  But  how  're  you  going  to  get  across  the  river 
—  she  's  running  high  now." 

"Oh,  I  '11  git  across  the  river,  all  right,"  grumbled 
Creede.  "Born  to  be  hung  and  ye  can't  git  drowned, 
as  they  say.  Well,  give  the  boss  my  best."  He 
paused,  frowning  gloomily  into  the  fire.  "Say,"  he 
said,  his  voice  breaking  a  little,  "d'  ye  ever  hear  any- 
thing from  Miss  Bonnair?" 

For  a  moment  Hardy  was  silent.  Then,  reading 
what  was  in  his  partner's  heart,  he  answered  gently : 

"Not  a  word,  Jeff." 

The  big  cowboy  sighed  and  grinned  cynically. 

"That  was  a  mighty  bad  case  I  had,"  he  observed 
philosophically.  "But  d'ye  know  what  was  the 
matter  with  me?  Well,  I  never  tumbled  to  it  till 

28  [433] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

afterward,  but  it  was  jest  because  she  was  like  Sallie 
• —  talked  like  her  and  rode  like  her,  straddle,  that  way. 
But  I  wanter  tell  you,  boy,"  he  added  mournfully, 
"Sal  had  a  heart." 

He  sank  once  more  into  sombre  contemplation, 
grumbling  as  he  nursed  his  wounds,  and  at  last  Hardy 
asked  him  a  leading  question  about  Sallie  Winship. 

"Did  I  ever  hear  from  'er?"  repeated  Creede,  rous- 
ing up  from  his  reverie.  "No,  and  it  ain't  no  use  to 
try.  I  wrote  to  her  three  times,  but  I  never  got  no 
answer  —  I  reckon  the  old  lady  held  'em  out  on  her. 
She  would  n't  stand  for  no  bow-legged  cowpuncher 

—  and  ye  can't  blame  her  none,  the  way  old  man 
Winship  used  to  make  her  cook  for  them  rodeo  hands 

—  but  Sallie  would  've  answered  them  letters  if  she  'd 
got  'em." 

"But  where  were  they  living  in  St.  Louis?"  per- 
sisted Hardy.  "Maybe  you  got  the  wrong  address." 

"Nope,  I  got  it  straight  —  Saint  Louie,  Mo.,  jest 
the  way  you  see  it  in  these  money-order  catalogues." 

"But  didn't  you  give  any  street  and  number?" 
cried  Hardy,  aghast.  "Why,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
Jeff,  there  are  half  a  million  people  in  St.  Louis  — 
she  'd  never  get  it  in  the  world." 

"No?"  inquired  Creede  apathetically.  "Well,  it 
don't  make  no  difference,  then.  I  don't  amount  to  a 
dam',  anyhow  —  and  this  is  no  place  for  a  woman  — 

[434] 


PORTENTS     OF     WAR 

but,  by  God,  Rufe,  I  do  git  awful  lonely  when  I  see 
you  writin'  them  letters  to  the  boss.  If  I  only  had 
somebody  that  cared  for  me  I  'd  prize  up  hell  to  make 
good.  I  'd  do  anything  in  God's  world  —  turn  back 
them  sheep  or  give  up  my  six-shooter,  jest  as  she  said; 
but,  nope,  they  's  no  such  luck  for  Jeff  Creede  — • 

«* 

he  could  n't  make  a-winnin'  with  a  squaw." 

"Jeff,"  said  Hardy  quietly,  "how  much  would  you 
give  to  get  a  letter  from  Sallie?" 

"What  d'  ye  mean?"  demanded  Creede,  looking  up 
quickly.  Then,  seeing  the  twinkle  in  his  partner's 
eye,  he  made  a  grab  for  his  money.  "My  whole 
wad,"  he  cried,  throwing  down  the  roll.  "What 's 
the  deal?" 

"All  right,"  answered  Hardy,  deliberately  count- 
ing out  the  bills,  "there  's  the  ante  —  a  hundred  dol- 
lars. The  rest  I  hold  back  for  that  trip  to  St.  Louis. 
This  hundred  goes  to  the  Rinkerton  Detective 
Agency,  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  along  with  a  real  nice 
letter  that  I  '11  help  you  write;  and  the  minute  they 
deliver  that  letter  into  the  hands  of  Miss  Sallie  Win- 
ship,  formerly  of  Hidden  Water,  Arizona,  and  return 
an  answer,  there  's  another  hundred  coming  to  'em. 
Is  it  a  go?" 

"Pardner,"  said  Creede,  rising  up  solemnly  from 
his  place,  "I  want  to  shake  with  you  on  that." 

The  next  morning,  with  a  package  of  letters  in  the 

[435] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

crown  of  his  black  hat,  Jefferson  Creede  swam  Bat 
Wings  across  the  swift  current  of  the  Salagua,  hang- 
ing onto  his  tail  from  behind,  and  without  even  stop- 
ping to  pour  the  water  out  of  his  boots  struck  into 
the  long  trail  for  Bender. 

One  week  passed,  and  then  another,  and  at  last  he 
came  back,  wet  and  dripping  from  his  tussle  with  the 
river,  and  cursing  the  very  name  of  detectives. 

" W'y,  shucks !"  he  grumbled.  "I  bummed  around 
in  town  there  for  two  weeks,  hatin'  myself  and  makin' 
faces  at  a  passel  of  ornery  sheepmen,  and  what  do  I 
git  for  my  trouble?  'Dear  Mister  Creede,  your 
letter  of  umpty-ump  received.  We  have  detailed 
Detective  Moriarty  on  this  case  and  will  report  later. 
Yours  truly !'  That 's  all  —  keep  the  change  —  we 
make  a  livin'  off  of  suckers  —  and  they  's  one  born 
every  minute.  To  hell  with  these  detectives !  Well, 
I  never  received  nothin'  more  and  finally  I  jumped  at 
a  poor  little  bandy-legged  sheep-herder,  a  cross  be- 
tween a  gorilla  and  a  Digger  Injun  —  scared  him  to 
death.  But  I  pulled  my  freight  quick  before  we  had 
any  international  complications.  Don't  mention  Mr. 
Allan  Q.  Rinkerton  to  me,  boy,  or  I  '11  throw  a  fit. 
Say,"  he  said,  changing  the  subject  abruptly,  "how 
many  hundred  thousand  sheep  d'  ye  think  I  saw, 
comin'  up  from  Bender?  Well,  sir,  they  was  sheep  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  see  —  millions  of  'em  —  and 

[436] 


PORTENTS     OF     WAR 

they  Ve  got  that  plain  et  down  to  the  original  sand 
and  cactus,  already.  W'y,  boy,  if  we  let  them  sheep- 
men in  on  us  this  Spring  we  '11  look  like  a  watermelon 
patch  after  a  nigger  picnic;  we'll  be  cleaned  like 
Pablo  Moreno;  they  won't  be  pickin's  for  a  billy 
goat!  And  Jim  'n'  Jasp  have  been  ribbin'  their 
herders  on  scandalous.  This  little  bandy-legged  son- 
of-a-goat  that  I  jumped  at  down  in  Bender  actually 
had  the  nerve  to  say  that  I  killed  Juan  Alvarez  my- 
self. Think  of  that,  will  ye,  and  me  twenty  miles 
away  at  the  time !  But  I  reckon  if  you  took  Jasp  to 
pieces  you  'd  find  out  he  was  mad  over  them  three 
thousand  wethers  —  value  six  dollars  per  —  that  I 
stompeded.  The  dastard!  D'ye  see  how  he  keeps 
away  from  me?  Well,  I  'm  goin'  to  call  the  rodeo 
right  away  and  work  that  whole  upper  range,  and 
when  the  river  goes  down  you'll  find  Jeff  Creede 
right  there  with  the  goods  if  Jasp  is  lookin'  for 
trouble.  Read  them  letters,  boy,  and  tell  me  if  I  'm 
goin'  to  have  the  old  judge  on  my  hands,  too." 

According  to  the  letters,  he  was;  and  the  boss  was 
also  looking  forward  with  pleasure  to  her  visit  in  the 
Spring. 

"Well,  would  n't  that  jar  you,"  commented  Creede, 
and  then  he  laughed  slyly.  "Cheer  up,"  he  said,  "it 
might  be  worse  —  they  's  nothin'  said  about  Kitty 
Bonnair." 

[437] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Sure  enough  —  not  a  word  about  Kitty,  and  the 
year  before  Lucy  had  spoken  about  her  in  every 
letter!  There  was  something  mysterious  about  it, 
and  sinister;  they  both  felt  it. 

And  when  at  last  the  wagon  came  in,  bearing  only 
Judge  Ware  and  Lucy,  somehow  even  Jeff's  sore 
heart  was  touched  by  a  sense  of  loss.  But  while 
others  might  dissemble,  Bill  Lightfoot's  impulsive 
nature  made  no  concealment  of  its  chief est  thought. 

"Where  's  Miss  Bunnair?"  he  demanded,  as  soon 
as  Lucy  Ware  was  free,  and  there  was  a  sudden  lull 
in  the  conversation  roundabout  as  the  cowboys 
listened  for  the  answer. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Miss  Ware,  politely  evasive,  "but 
she  was  n't  able  to  come  with  me." 

"She  '11  be  down  bimeby,  though,  won't  she?"  per- 
sisted Lightfoot;  and  when  Lucy  finally  answered 
with  a  vague  "Perhaps"  he  turned  to  the  assembled 
cowboys  with  a  triumphant  grin.  "Um,  now,  what  'd 
I  tell  you!"  he  said;  and  one  and  all  they  scowled  and 
stabbed  him  with  their  eyes. 

The  rodeo  camp  was  already  established  beneath 
the  big  mesquite,  and  while  three  or  four  careless  cow- 
men held  the  day  herd  over  against  the  mesa  the  rest 
of  the  outfit  was  busy  raking  The  Rolls.  It  was  all 
very  different  from  what  Judge  Ware  and  Lucy  had 
anticipated.  There  was  no  sign  of  excitement  in  their 

[438] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

midst,  no  ostentatious  display  of  arms  or  posting  of 
patrols,  and  what  surprised  the  judge  most  of  all 
was  that  in  their  friendly  gatherings  around  the  fire 
there  was  no  one,  save  Hardy,  who  would  argue 
against  the  sheep. 

The  judge  had  Keen  on  to  Washington  and  was 
possessed  of  all  the  material  facts,  but  nobody  was  in- 
terested any  more  in  the  Salagua  Forest  Reserve;  he 
had  consulted  with  the  Chief  Forester  and  even  with 
the  President  himself,  laying  before  them  the  im- 
minence of  the  danger,  and  they  had  assured  him 
that  everything  possible  would  be  done  to  relieve  the 
situation.  Did  it  not,  then,  he  demanded,  behoove  the 
law-abiding  residents  of  prospective  forest  reserves 
to  cooperate  with  such  an  enlightened  administration, 
even  at  the  risk  of  some  temporary  personal  loss? 
And  with  one  voice  the  Four  Peaks  cowmen  agreed 
that  it  did.  There  was  something  eerie  about  it  — 
the  old  judge  was  dazed  by  their  acquiescence. 

Of  all  the  cowmen  at  Hidden  Water,  Ruf  us  Hardy 
was  the  only  man  who  would  discuss  the  matter  at 
length.  A  change  had  come  over  him  now;  he  was 
very  thin  and  quiet,  with  set  lines  along  his  jaw,  but 
instead  of  riding  nervously  up  and  down  the  river  as 
he  had  the  year  before  he  lingered  idly  about  the 
ranch,  keeping  tally  at  the  branding  and  entertaining 
his  guests.  No  matter  how  pedantic  or  polemical  the 

[439] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

old  judge  became,  Hardy  was  willing  to  listen  to 
him;  and  Lucy,  hovering  in  the  background,  would 
often  smile  to  hear  them  argue,  the  judge  laying  down 
the  law  and  equity  of  the  matter  and  Rufus  meeting 
him  like  an  expert  swordsman  with  parry  and  thrust. 
Day  by  day,  his  prejudice  wearing  away  from  lack  of 
any  real  opposition,  Judge  Ware  became  more  and 
more  pleased  with  his  daughter's  superintendent ;  but 
Lucy  herself  was  troubled.  There  was  a  look  in  his 
eyes  that  she  had  never  seen  before,  a  set  and  haggard 
stare  that  came  when  he  sat  alone,  and  his  head  was 
always  turned  aside,  as  if  he  were  listening.  The 
sheep  came  trooping  in  from  the  south,  marching  in 
long  lines  to  the  river's  edge,  and  still  he  sat  quiet,  just 
inside  the  door,  listening. 

"Tell  me,  Rufus,"  she  said,  one  day  when  her 
father  was  inspecting  the  upper  range  with  Creede, 
"what  is  it  that  made  you  so  sad?  Is  it  —  Kitty?" 

For  a  minute  he  gazed  at  her,  a  faint  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"No,"  he  said,  at  last,  "it  is  not  Kitty."  And  then 
he  lapsed  back  into  silence,  his  head  turned  as  before. 

The  wind  breathed  through  the  corredor,  bringing 
with  it  a  distant,  plaintive  bleating  —  the  sheep,  wait- 
ing beyond  the  turbid  river  to  cross. 

"I  have  forgotten  about  Kitty,"  he  said  absently. 
"For  me  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  sheep. 

[440] 


PORTENTS     OF     WAR 

Can't  you  hear  them  bleating  down  there?"  He  cried, 
throwing  out  his  hands.  "Can't  you  smell  them? 
Ah,  Lucy,  if  you  knew  sheep  as  I  do !  I  never  hear  a 
sheep  now  that  I  don't  think  of  that  day  last  year 
when  they  came  pouring  out  of  Hell's  Hip  Pocket 
with  a  noise  like  the  end  of  the  world.  If  I  had  been 
there  to  stop  them  they  might  never  have  taken  the 
range  —  but  after  that,  all  through  the  hot  summer 
when  the  cattle  were  dying  for  feed,  every  time  the 
wind  came  up  and  roared  in  my  ears  I  would  hear 
sheep  —  baaa,  baaa  —  and  now  I  hear  them  again." 

He  paused  and  looked  up  at  her  intently. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  noise  means  to  me?"  he 
demanded,  almost  roughly.  "It  means  little  calves 
dying  around  the  water  hole;  mothers  lowing  for 
their  little  ones  that  they  have  left  to  starve ;  it  means 
long  lines  of  cows  following  me  out  over  the  mesa 
for  brush,  and  all  the  trees  cut  down.  Ah,  Lucy,  how 
can  your  father  talk  of  waiting  when  it  means  as  much 
as  that?" 

"But  last  year  was  a  drought,"  protested  Lucy  piti- 
fully. "Will  it  be  as  bad  this  year?" 

"Every  bit!  Did  you  notice  that  plain  between 
Bender  and  the  river?  It  will  be  like  that  in  a  week 
if  we  let  them  cross  the  river." 

"Oh,"  cried  Lucy,  "then  you  —  do  you  mean  to 
turn  them  back?" 

[441] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"The  river  is  very  high,"  answered  Hardy  som- 
brely. "They  cannot  cross."  And  then  as  a  quail 
strikes  up  leaves  and  dust  to  hide  her  nest,  he  launched 
forth  quickly  upon  a  story  of  the  flood. 

The  Salagua  was  long  in  flood  that  Spring.  Day 
after  day,  while  the  sheep  wandered  uneasily  along 
its  banks  rearing  up  to  strip  the  last  remnants  of 
browse  from  the  tips  of  willows  and  burro  bushes,  it 
rolled  ponderously  forth  from  its  black- walled  gorge 
and  flowed  past  the  crossing,  deep  and  strong,  suck- 
ing evenly  into  the  turbid  whirlpool  that  waited  for  its 
prey.  At  the  first  approach  of  the  invaders  the  un- 
considered  zeal  of  Judge  Ware  overcame  him;  he 
was  for  peace,  reason,  the  saner  judgment  that  comes 
from  wider  views  and  a  riper  mind,  and,  fired  by  the 
hope  of  peaceful  truce,  he  rode  furtively  along  the 
river  waving  a  white  handkerchief  whenever  he 
saw  a  sheep-herder,  and  motioning  him  to  cross. 
But  however  anxious  he  was  for  an  interview  the 
desires  of  the  sheepmen  did  not  lean  in  that  di- 
rection, and  they  only  stared  at  him  stolidly  or 
pretended  not  to  see. 

Thwarted  in  his  efforts  for  peace  the  judge  re- 
turned to  camp  deep  in  thought.  The  sheep  were  at 
his  very  door  and  nothing  had  been  done  to  stay 
them;  a  deadly  apathy  seemed  to  have  settled  down 
upon  the  cowmen;  after  all  their  threats  there  were 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

no  preparations  for  defence;  the  river  was  not  even 
patrolled;  and  yet  if  quick  action  was  not  taken  the 
upper  range  might  be  irreparably  ruined  before  the 
reserve  was  proclaimed.  Not  that  he  would  counte- 
nance violence,  but  a  judicious  show  of  resistance,  for 
instance,  might  easily  delay  the  crossing  until  the 
President  could  act,  or  even  so  daunt  the  invaders 
that  they  would  go  around.  It  was  not  strictly  legal, 
of  course,  but  the  judge  could  see  no  harm  in  sug- 
gesting it,  and  as  soon  as  the  ccTTmen  were  gathered 
about  their  fire  that  evening  he  went  out  and  sat 
down  by  Creede,  who  lay  sprawled  on  his  back,  his 
head  pillowed  on  his  hands,  smoking. 

"Well,  Jefferson,"  he  began,  feeling  his  way  cau- 
tiously, "I  see  that  the  sheep  have  come  down  to 
the  river  —  they  will  be  making  a  crossing  soon,  I 
suppose?" 

Creede  sucked  studiously  upon  his  cigarette,  and 
shifted  it  to  a  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"W'y  yes,  Judge,"  he  said,  "I  reckon  they  will." 

"Well  —  er  —  do  you  think  they  intend  to  invade 
our  upper  range  this  year?" 

"Sure  thing,"  responded  Creede,  resuming  his 
smoke,  "that 's  what  they  come  up  here  for.  You 
want  to  take  a  last  long  look  at  this  grass." 

"Yes,  but,  Jefferson,"  protested  the  judge,  opening 
up  his  eyes,  "what  will  our  cattle  feed  upon  then?" 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Same  old  thing,"  answered  Creede,  ffpalo  verde 
and  giant  cactus.  I  Ve  got  most  of  mine  in  the  town 
herd." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Judge  Ware,  astounded  at  the 
suggestion,  "you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  pre- 
paring to  go  out  of  business  ?  Why,  my  dear  Jeffer- 
son, this  country  may  be  set  aside  as  a  forest  reserve 
at  any  minute  —  and  think  of  the  privileges  you  will 
be  giving  up!  As  an  owner  of  cattle  already  grazing 
upon  the  range  you  will  be  entitled  to  the  first  con- 
sideration of  the  Government;  you  will  be  granted 
the  first  grazing  permit;  there  will  be  forest  rangers 
to  protect  you;  the  sheep,  being  transient  stock  and 
known  to  be  very  destructive  to  forest  growth,  will 
undoubtedly  be  confined  to  a  narrow  trail  far  below 
us;  by  the  payment  of  a  nominal  grazing  fee  you 
will  be  absolutely  guaranteed  in  all  your  rights  and 
watched  over  by  the  Federal  Government!" 

"Oh,  hell!"  exclaimed  the  big  cowboy,  rising  up 
suddenly  from  his  place,  "don't  talk  Government  to 
me,  whatever  you  do!  W'y,  Judge,"  he  cried,  throw- 
ing out  his  hands,  "they  ain't  no  Government  here. 
They  ain't  no  law.  I  could  go  over  and  kill  one  of 
them  sheep-herders  and  you  would  n't  see  an  officer 
in  two  days.  I  Ve  lived  here  for  nigh  onto  twenty- 
six  years  and  the  nearest  I  ever  come  to  seein'  the 
Government  was  a  mule  branded  'U.  S.' ' 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

He  stopped  abruptly  and,  striding  out  into  the 
darkness,  picked  up  a  log  of  wood  and  laid  it  care-* 
fully  upon  the  fire. 

"Judge,"  he  said,  turning  suddenly  and  wagging 
an  accusing  finger  at  his  former  employer,  "I  Ve 
heard  a  lot  from  you  about  this  reserve,  how  the 
President  was  goin'  to  telegraph  you  the  news  the 
minute  he  signed  the  proclamation,  and  send  a  ranger 
in  to  protect  the  range,  and  all  that,  but  I  ain't  seen 
you  do  nothin' !  Now  if  you  're  goin'  to  make  good 
you  Ve  got  jest  about  three  days  to  do  it  in  —  after 
that  the  sheep  will  have  us  dished.  Maybe  you  could 
use  your  pull  to  kinder  hurry  things  up  a  little  —  do 
a  little  telegraphin',  or  somethin'  like  that." 

."I  '11  do  it!"  cried  the  judge,  taking  the  bait  like 
a  fish,  "I  '11  do  it  at  once !  I  want  your  best  horse, 
Jeff,  and  a  guide.  I  '11  wire  the  chief  forester  from 
Bender!" 

"Keno!"  said  Creede  sententiously,  "and  give  my 
regards  to  Teddy." 

As  the  old  judge  disappeared  over  the  western  rim 
the  next  morning  the  rodeo  boss  smiled  grimly  behind 
his  hand,  and  glanced  significantly  at  Hardy.  Then, 
with  the  outfit  behind  him,  he  rode  slowly  up  the 
canon,  leaving  his  partner  to  his  steady  job  as  "family 
man"-  -  entertaining  the  boss. 

For  two   days  the  sheepmen  watched  the  river 

[445] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

eagerly,  waiting  for  a  drop;  then  suddenly,  as  the 
snow  water  ran  by  and  a  cool  day  checked  the  distant 
streams,  it  fell,  and  the  swift  pageant  of  the  crossing 
began.  At  sun-up  a  boss  herder  rode  boldly  out  into 
the  current  and  swam  it  with  his  horse ;  brawny  Mexi- 
cans leapt  into  the  thicket  of  polo  verdes  that  grew 
against  the  cliff  and  cut  branches  to  build  a  chute; 
Jasper  Swope  in  his  high  sombrero  and  mounted  on 
his  black  mule  galloped  down  from  the  hidden  camp 
and  urged  his  men  along.  Still  the  same  ominous 
silence  hung  about  the  shore  where  Juan  Alvarez  lay 
buried  beneath  the  cross.  There  was  no  watcher  on 
Lookout  Point,  no  horsemen  lurking  in  the  distance; 
only  the  lowing  of  the  day  herd,  far  up  the  canon, 
and  the  lapping  of  muddy  waters.  Across  the  river 
the  low  malpai  cliffs  rose  up  like  ramparts  against 
them  and  Black  Butte  frowned  down  upon  them  like 
a  watch  tower,  but  of  the  men  who 'might  be  there 
watching  there  wras  no  sign. 

The  sheepman  studied  upon  the  situation  for  a 
while;  then  he  sent  a  messenger  flying  back  to  camp 
and  soon  a  hardy  band  of  wethers  came  down,  led  by 
an  advance  guard  of  goats,  and  their  plaintive  bleat- 
ing echoed  in  a  confused  chorus  from  the  high  cliffs  as 
they  entered  the  wings  of  the  chute.  Already  the 
camp  rustlers  had  driven  them  out  on  the  slanting 
rock  and  encircled  the  first  cut  with  their  canvas 

[446] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

wagon  cover,  when  Jasper  Swope  held  up  his  hand 
for  them  to  stop.  At  the  last  moment  and  for  no 
cause  he  hesitated,  touched  by  some  premonition,  or 
suspicious  of  the  silent  shore.  One  after  another 
the  herders  clambered  back  and  squatted  idly  against 
the  cool  cliff,  smoking  and  dangling  their  polished 
carbines ;  the  sheep,  left  standing  upon  the  rock,  hud- 
dled together  and  stood  motionless;  the  goats  leapt 
nimbly  up  on  adjacent  bowlders  and  gazed  across  the 
river  intently;  then,  throwing  up  his  hand  again, 
the  sheepman  spurred  his  black  mule  recklessly 
into  the  water,  waving  his  big  hat  as  he  motioned  for 
the  sheep  to  cross. 

As  the  long  hours  of  that  portentous  morning  wore 
on,  palpitating  to  the  clamor  of  the  sheep,  a  great 
quiet  settled  upon  Hidden  Water.  Sitting  just  with- 
in the  door  Hardy  watched  Lucy  as  she  went  about 
her  work,  but  his  eyes  were  wandering  and  haggard 
and  he  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  Black  Butte 
that  stood  like  a  sentinel  against  the  crossing.  In 
the  intervals  of  conversation  the  bleating  of  the  sheep 
rose  suddenly  from  down  by  the  river,  and  ceased ;  he 
talked  on,  feverishly,  never  stopping  for  an  answer, 
and  Lucy  looked  at  him  strangely,  as  if  wondering 
at  his  preoccupation.  Again  the  deep  tremolo  rose 
up,  echoing  from  the  cliffs,  and  Hardy  paused  in  the 
midst  of  a  story  to  listen.  He  was  still  staring  out 

[447] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  doorway  when  Lucy  Ware  came  over  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Rufus,"  she  said,  "what  is  it  you  are  always  listen- 
ing for?  Day  after  day  I  see  you  watching  here  by 
the  door,  and  when  I  talk  you  listen  for  something 
else.  Tell  me  —  is  it  —  are  you  watching  for  Kitty  ?" 

"Kitty?"  repeated  Hardy,  his  eyes  still  intent. 
"Why  no;  why  should  I  be  watching  for  her?" 

At  his  answer,  spoken  so  impassively,  she  drew 
away  quickly,  but  he  caught  her  hand  and  stopped 
her. 

"Ah  no,"  he  said,  "if  I  could  only  listen  for  some- 
thing else  it  would  be  better  —  but  all  I  hear  is  sheep. 
I  'm  like  old  Bill  Johnson ;  I  can  still  shoot  straight 
and  find  my  way  in  the  mountains,  but  every  time  I 
hear  a  sheep  blat  I  change.  Poor  old  Bill,  he  's  over 
across  the  river  there  now;  the  boys  have  heard  his 
hounds  baying  up  in  the  high  cliffs  for  a  week.  I  Ve 
seen  him  a  time  or  two  since  he  took  to  the  hills  and 
he  's  just  as  quiet  and  gentle  with  me  as  if  he  were 
my  father,  but  if  anybody  mentions  sheep  he  goes 
raving  crazy  in  a  minute.  Jeff  says  he  's  been  that 
way  himself  for  years,  and  now  it 's  got  me,  too.  If 
I  get  much  worse,"  he  ended,  suddenly  glancing  up  at 
her  with  a  wistful  smile,  "you  '11  have  to  take  me 
away." 

"Away!"   cried   Lucy  eagerly,   "would  you   go? 

[448] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

You  know  father  and  I  have  talked  of  it  time  and 
again,  but  you  just  stick  and  stick,  and  nothing  will 
make  you  leave.  But  listen  —  what  was  that?" 

A  succession  of  rifle  shots,  like  the  popping  of  wet 
logs  over  a  fire,  came  dully  to  their  ears,  muffled  by 
the  bleating  of  sheep  and  the  echoing  of  the  cliffs. 
Hardy  leapt  to  his  feet  and  listened  intently,  his  eyes 
burning  with  suppressed  excitement ;  then  he  stepped 
reluctantly  back  into  the  house  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  guess  it 's  only  those  Mexican  herders,"  he  said. 
"They  shoot  that  way  to  drive  their  sheep." 

"But  look!"  cried  Lucy,  pointing  out  the  door,  "the 
Black  Butte  is  afire!  Just  see  that  great  smoke!" 

Hardy  sprang  up  again  and  dashed  out  into  the 
open.  The  popping  of  thirty-thirtys  had  ceased,  but 
from  the  summit  of  the  square-topped  butte  a  signal 
fire  rose  up  to  heaven,  tall  and  straight  and  black. 

"Aha!"  he  muttered,  and  without  looking  at  her  he 
ran  out  to  the  corral  to  saddle  Chapuli.  But  when  he 
came  back  he  rode  slowly,  checking  the  impatience  of 
his  horse,  until  at  last  he  dismounted  beside  her.  For 
days  his  eyes  had  been  furtive  and  evasive,  but  now  at 
last  they  were  steady. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  "I  have  n't  been  very  honest  with 
you,  but  I  guess  you  know  what  this  means  —  the 
boys  are  turning  back  the  sheep."  His  voice  was  low 
and  gentle,  and  he  stood  very  straight  before  her,  like 

29  [449] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

a  soldier.  Yet,  even  though  she  sensed  what  was  in 
his  mind,  Lucy  smiled.  For  a  month  he  had  been 
to  her  like  another  man,  a  man  without  emotion  or 
human  thought,  and  now  in  a  moment  he  had  come 
back,  the  old  Rufus  that  she  had  known  in  her  heart 
so  long. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him,  "I 
knew  it.  But  you  are  working  for  me,  you  know,  and 
I  cannot  let  you  go.  Listen,  Rufus,"  she  pleaded, 
as  he  drew  away,  "have  I  ever  refused  you  anything? 
Tell  me  what  you  want  to  do." 

"I  want  to  go  down  there  and  help  turn  back  those 
sheep,"  he  said,  bluntly.  "You  know  me,  Lucy  — 
my  heart  is  in  this  fight  —  my  friends  are  in  it  —  and 
I  must  go." 

He  waited  for  some  answer,  but  Lucy  only  turned 
away.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked 
back  at  him  and  her  lips  trembled,  but  she  passed  into 
the  house  without  a  word.  Hardy  gazed  wonderingly 
after  her  and  his  heart  smote  him;  she  was  like  some 
sensitive  little  child  to  whom  every  rough  word  was  a 
How,  and  he  had  hurt  her.  He  glanced  at  the  signal 
fire  that  rolled  up  black  and  sombre  as  the  watcher 
piled  green  brush  upon  it,  then  he  dropped  his  bridle 
rein  and  stepped  quickly  into  the  house. 

"You  must  forgive  me,  Lucy,"  he  said,  standing 
humbly  at  the  door.  "I  —  I  am  changed.  But  do 

[450] 


PORTENTS     OF    WAR 

not  think  that  I  will  come  to  any  harm  —  this  is  not 
a  battle  against  men,  but  sheep.  No  one  will  be 
killed.  And  now  may  I  go?"  Once  more  his  voice 
became  low  and  gentle  and  he  stood  before  her  like 
some  questing  knight  before  his  queen,  but  she  only- 
sat  gazing  at  him  with  eyes  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"Listen,  Lucy,"  he  cried,  "I  will  not  go  unless  you 
tell  me  —  and  now  may  I  go?" 

A  smile  came  over  Lucy's  face  but  she  did  not  speak 
her  thoughts. 

"If  you  will  stay  for  my  sake,"  she  said,  "I  shall  be 
very  happy,  but  I  will  not  hold  you  against  your 
will.  Oh,  Rufus,  Rufus!"  she  cried,  suddenly  hold- 
ing out  her  hands,  "can't  you  understand?  I  can't 
set  myself  against  you,  and  yet  —  think  what  it  is  to 
be  a  woman!"  She  rose  up  and  stood  before  him,  the 
soft  light  glowing  in  her  eyes,  and  Hardy  stepped  for- 
ward to  meet  her;  but  in  that  moment  a  drumming  of 
hoofs  echoed  through  the  doorway,  there  was  a  rush  of 
horsemen  leaning  forward  as  they  rode,  and  then  Jef- 
ferson Creede  thundered  by,  glancing  back  as  he 
spurred  down  the  canon  to  meet  the  sheep. 

"My  God!"  whispered  Hardy,  following  his  flight 
with  startled  eyes,  and  as  the  rout  of  cowboys  flashed 
up  over  the  top  of  Lookout  Point  and  were  gone  he 
bowed  his  head  in  silence. 

[451] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  at  last,  "my  mind  has  been  far 
away.  I  —  I  have  not  seen  what  was  before  me,  and 
I  shall  always  be  the  loser.  But  look  —  I  have  two 
friends  in  all  the  world,  you  and  Jeff,  and  you  are 
the  dearer  by  far.  But  you  could  see  as  Jeff  went 
by  that  he  was  mad.  What  he  will  do  at  the  river  I 
can  only  guess;  he  is  crazy,  and  a  crazy  man  will  do 
anything.  But  if  I  am  with  him  I  can  hold  him  back 
—  will  you  let  me  go?"  He  held  out  his  hands  and 
as  Lucy  took  them  she  saw  for  the  first  time  in  his  shy 
eyes  —  love.  For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  him  wist- 
fully, but  her  heart  never  faltered.  Whatever  his  will 
might  be  she  would  never  oppose  it,  now  that  she  had 
his  love. 

"Yes,  Rufus,"  she  said,  "you  may  go,  but  remem- 
ber —  me." 


[452] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   LAST   CROSSING 

rpHE  rush  and  thunder  of  cow  ponies  as  they  ham- 
mered over  the  trail  and  plunged  down  through 
the  rocks  and  trees  had  hardly  lost  its  echoes  in  the 
cliffs  when,  with  a  flash  of  color  and  a  dainty  patter- 
ing of  hoofs,  Chapuli  came  flying  over  the  top  of 
Lookout  Point  and  dashed  up  the  river  after  thenu 
The  cowmen  had  left  their  horses  in  the  deep  ravine 
at  the  end  of  the  malpai  bluffs  and  were  already 
crouched  behind  the  rampart  of  the  rim  rocks  as  close 
as  Indian  fighters,  each  by  some  loophole  in  the  black- 
ened malpai,  with  a  rifle  in  his  hand.  As  Hardy  crept 
in  from  behind,  Jeff  Creede  motioned  him  to  a  place  at 
his  side  greeting  him  at  the  same  time  with  a  broad 
grin. 

"Hello,  sport,"  he  said,  "couldn't  keep  out  of  it, 
eh?  Well,  we  need  ye,  all  right.  Here,  you  can  hold 
straighter  than  I  can ;  take  my  gun  and  shoot  rainbows 
around  the  leaders  when  they  start  to  come  across." 

"Not  much,"  answered  Hardy,  waving  the  gun 
away,  "I  just  came  down  to  keep  you  out  of  trouble/' 

"Ye-es!"  jeered  Creede,  "first  thing  I  know  you  '11 

[453] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

lie  down  there  fightin'  'em  back  with  rocks.  But 
say,*'  he  continued,  "d'  ye  notice  anything  funny  up  on 
that  cliff?  Listen,  now!" 

Hardy  turned  his  head,  and  soon  above  the  clamor 
of  the  sheep  he  made  out  the  faint  "Owwp!  Owwwpf' 
of  hounds. 

"It  's  Bill  Johnson,  is  n't  it?"  he  said,  and  Creede 
nodded  significantly. 

"God  help  them  pore  sheepmen,"  he  observed,  "if 
Bill  has  got  his  thirty-thirty.  Listen  to  'em  sing,  will 
ye!  Ain't  they  happy,  though?  And  they  don't  give 
a  dam'  for  us  —  ump-um  —  they  're  comin'  across 
anyway.  Well,  that  's  what  keeps  hell  crowded  —  let 


There  was  a  glitter  of  carbines  against  the  opposite 
cliffs  where  the  spare  herders  had  taken  to  cover,  but 
out  on  the  rocky  point  where  the  chute  led  into  the 
river  a  gang  of  Mexicans  and  two  Americans  were 
leading  their  wagon  cover  around  a  fresh  cut  of  goats 
sand  sheep.  On  the  sand  bar  far  below  the  strag- 
gleits  from  the  first  cut,  turned  back  in  the  initial  rush, 
were  wandering  aimlessly  about  or  plodding  back  to 
the  herd,  but  the  sheepmen  with  bullheaded  persistence 
were  preparing  to  try  again.  Chief  among  them 
towered  the  boss,  Jasper  Swope,  wet  to  the  waist  from 
swimming  across  the  river;  and  as  he  motioned  to  the 
herders  to  go  ahead  he  ran  back  and  mounted  his  mule 

[454] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

again.  With  a  barbaric  shout  the  Mexicans  surged 
forward  on  the  tarpaulin,  sweeping  their  cut  to  the 
very  edge;  then,  as  the  goats  set  their  feet  and  held 
back,  a  swarthy  herder  leapt  into  the  midst  and 
tumbled  them,  sheep  and  goats  alike,  into  the  water. 
Like  plummets  they  went  down  into  the  slow-moving 
depths,  some  headfirst,  some  falling  awkwardly  on 
their  backs  or  slipping  like  beavers  on  a  slide;  there 
was  a  prolonged  and  mighty  splash  and  then,  one  by 
one  the  heads  bobbed  up  and  floated  away  until,  led  by 
the  high-horned  goats,  they  struck  out  for  the  oppo- 
site shore.  Below,  yelling  and  throwing  stones  to 
frighten  them,  a  line  of  Mexicans  danced  up  and  down 
along  the  rocky  shore,  and  to  keep  them  from  drifting 
into  the  whirlpool  Jasper  Swope  plunged  boldly  into 
the  water  on  his  mule. 

Sink  or  swim,  the  sheep  were  in  the  water,  and  for  a 
minute  there  was  a  tense  silence  along  the  river;  then, 
as  the  goats  lined  out,  a  rifle  shot  echoed  from  the 
cliffs  and  a  white  column  of  water  rose  up  before  the 
leader.  He  shook  his  head,  hesitated  and  looked 
back,  and  once  more  the  water  splashed  in  his  face, 
while  the  deep  ploomp  of  the  bullet  answered  to  the 
shot.  Fighting  away  from  the  sudden  stroke  the  goat 
lost  his  headway  and,  drifting,  fouled  those  below 
him;  a  sudden  confusion  fell  upon  the  orderly  ranks 
of  the  invaders  and,  like  a  flock  of  geese  whose  leader 

[455] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

is  killed,  they  jostled  against  one  another,  some  intent 
on  the  farther  shore  and  some  struggling  to  turn  back. 
Instantly  a  chorus  of  savage  shouts  rose  up  from 
along  the  river,  the  shrill  yells  of  the  cowboys  ming- 
ling with  the  whooping  and  whistling  of  the  sheep - 
-:  men,  until  at  last,  overcome  by  the  hostile  clamor,  the 
,  timid  sheep  turned  back  toward  the  main  herd,  draw- 
ing with  them  the  goats.  For  a  minute  Jasper  Swope 
fought  against  them,  waving  his  hat  and  shouting; 
then,  rather  than  see  them  drift  too  far  and  be  drawn 
into  the  clutch  of  the  whirlpool,  he  whipped  his  mule 
about  and  led  them  back  to  the  shore. 

A  second  time,  calling  out  all  his  men  to  help,  the 
boss  sheepman  tried  to  cross  the  goats  alone,  intend- 
ing to  hold  them  on  the  shore  for  a  lure;  but  just  as 
they  were  well  lined  out  the  same  careful  marksman 
behind  the  mcdpai  threw  water  in  their  faces  and 
turned  them  back.  But  this  time  Jasper  Swope  did 
not  lead  the  retreat.  Slapping  his  black  mule  over 
the  ears  with  his  hat  he  held  straight  for  the  opposite 
shore,  cursing  and  brandishing  his  gun. 

"You  dam',  cowardly  passel  of  t ail- twist ers !"  he 
cried,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  bluffs,  "why  don't  you 
come  out  into  the  open  like  men?" 

But  a  grim  silence  was  his  only  answer. 

"Hey,  you  bold  bad  man  from  Bitter  Creek, 
Texas !"  he  shouted,  riding  closer  to  the  beach.  "Why 

[456] 


THE    LAST    CROSSING 

don't  you  come  down  and  fight  me  like  a  man?"  His 
big  voice  was  trembling  with  excitement  and  he  held 
his  pistol  balanced  in  the  air  as  if  awaiting  an  attack, 
but  Jefferson  Creede  did  not  answer  him. 

"I  '11  fight  you,  man  to  man,  you  big  blowhard!" 
thundered  Swope,  "and  there  goes  my  pistol  to  prove 
it!"  He  rose  in  his  stirrups  as  he  spoke  and  hurled 
it  away  from  him,  throwing  his  cartridge  belt  after  it. 
"Now"  he  yelled,  "you  Ve  been  sayin'  what  you  'd 
do;  come  out  of  your  hole,  Jeff  Creede,  I  want  ye!" 

"Well,  you  won't  git  me,  then,"  answered  Creede, 
his  voice  coming  cold  and  impassive  from  over  the  rim. 
"I  '11  fight  you  some  other  time." 

"Ahrr!"  taunted  Swope,  "hear  the  coward  talk! 
Here  I  stand,  unarmed,  and  he  's  afraid  to  come  out ! 
But  if  there  's  a  man  amongst  you,  send  him  down, 
and  if  he  licks  me  I  '11  go  around." 

"You  '11  go  around  anyhow,  you  Mormon- faced 
wool-puller!"  replied  the  cowman  promptly,  "and 
we  're  here  to  see  to  it,  so  you  might  as  well  chase 
yourself." 

"No,  I  like  this  side,"  said  the  sheepman,  pretending 
to  admire  the  scenery.  "I  '11  jest  stay  here  a  while, 
and  then  I  '11  cross  in  spite  of  ye.  If  I  can't  cross 
here,"  he  continued,  "I  '11  wait  for  the  river  to  fall  and 
cross  down  below  —  and  then  I  '11  sheep  you  to  the 
rocks,  you  low-lived,  skulkin'  murderers!  It's  a 

[457] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

wonder  some  of  you  don't  shoot  me  the  way  you  did 
Juan  Alvarez,  down  there."  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  point  where  the  wooden  cross  rose  against 
the  sky,  but  no  one  answered  the  taunt. 

"Murderers,  I  said!"  he  shouted,  rising  up  in  his 
saddle.  "I  call  you  murderers  before  God  A'mighty 
and  there  ain't  a  man  denies  it!  Oh,  my  Mexicans 
can  see  that  cross  —  they  're  lookin'  at  it  now  —  and 
when  the  river  goes  down  they  '11  come  in  on  you,  if 
it 's  only  to  break  even  for  Juan." 

He  settled  back  in  his  saddle  and  gazed  doubtfully 
at  the  bluff,  and  then  at  the  opposite  shore.  Nature 
had  placed  him  at  a  disadvantage,  for  the  river  was 
wide  and  deep  and  his  sheep  were  easy  to  turn,  yet 
there  was  still  a  chance. 

"Say,"  he  began,  moderating  his  voice  to  a  more 
conciliatory  key,  "I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do.  There  's 
no  use  shooting  each  other  over  this.  Send  down 
your  best  man  —  if  he  licks  me  I  go  around;  if  I 
lick  him  I  come  across.  Is  it  a  go?" 

There  was  a  short  silence  and  then  an  argument 
broke  out  along  the  bluff,  a  rapid  fire  of  exhortation 
ind  protest,  some  urging  Creede  to  take  him  up,  others 
clamoring  for  peace. 

"No!"  shouted  Jefferson  Creede,  raising  his  voice 
angrily  above  the  uproar.  "I  won't  do  it!  I 
would  n't  trust  a  sheepman  as  far  as  I  could  throw  a 

[458] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

bull  by  the  tail!  You  'd  sell  your  black  soul  for  two 
bits,  Jasp  Swope,"  he  observed,  peering  warily  over 
the  top  of  the  rock,  "and  you  'd  shoot  a  man  in  the 
back,  too  1" 

"But  look  at  me!"  cried  Swope,  dropping  off  hisr 
mule,  "I  'm  stripped  to  my  shirt ;  there  goes  my  gua 
into  the  water  —  and  I  'm  on  your  side  of  the  river! 
You  're  a  coward,  Jeff  Creede,  and  I  always  knowed 
it!" 

"But  my  head  ain't  touched,"  commented  Creede 
dryly.  "I  've  got  you  stopped  anyhow.  What  kind 
of  a  dam'  fool  would  I  be  to  fight  over  it  ?" 

"I  '11  fight  ye  for  nothin',  then !"  bellowed  the  sheep- 
man. "I'll-  He  stopped  abruptly  and  a  great 
quiet  fell  upon  both  shores.  From  the  mouth  of 
the  hidden  ravine  a  man  had  suddenly  stepped 
into  the  open,  unarmed,  and  now  he  was  coming  out 
across  the  sands  to  meet  him.  It  was  Rufus  Hardyv 
dwarfed  like  David  before  Goliath  in  the  presence  of 
the  burly  sheepman,  but  striding  over  the  hard- 
packed  sand  with  the  lithe  swiftness  of  a  panther, 

" I  'II  fight  you,"  he  said,  raising  his  hand  in  chal- 
lenge, but  Swope's  answer  was  drowned  in  a  wild  yell 
from  Creede. 

"Come  back  here,  Rufe,  you  durn'  fool!"  he  called. 
"Come  back,  I  tell  ye!  Don't  you  know  better  than 
to  trust  a  sheepman?" 

[459] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"Never  mind,  now,"  answered  Hardy,  turning  aus- 
terely to  the  bluff.  "I  guess  I  can  ta\e  care  of  my- 
self." 

He  swung  about  and  advanced  to  the  stretch  of  level 
sand  where  Swope  was  standing.  "What  guarantee 
3o  I  get,"  he  demanded  sharply,  "that  if  I  lick  you  in 
a  fair  fight  the  sheep  will  go  around?" 

"You  —  lick  —  mel"  repeated  the  sheepman,  show- 
ing his  jagged  teeth  in  a  sardonic  grin.  "Well,  I  '11 
tell  ye,  Willie ;  if  you  hit  me  with  that  lily-white  hand 
of  yourn,  and  I  find  it  out  the  same  day,  I  '11  promise 
to  stay  off'n  your  range  for  a  year." 

"All  right,"  replied  Hardy,  suddenly  throwing 
away  his  hat.  "You  noticed  it  when  I  hit  you  before, 
didn't  you?"  he  inquired,  edging  quickly  in  on  his 
opponent  and  beginning  an  amazing  bout  of  shadow 
boxing.  "Well,  come  on,  then!"  He  laughed  as 
Swope  struck  out  at  him,  and  continued  his  hectoring 
lanter.  "As  I  remember  it  your  head  hit  the  ground 
before  your  heels!" 

Then  in  a  whirlwind  of  blows  and  feints  they  came 
together.  It  was  the  old  story  of  science  against 
brute  strength.  Jasper  Swope  was  a  rough-and-tum- 
ble fighter  of  note;  he  was  quick,  too,  in  spite  of  his 
weight,  and  his  blows  were  like  the  strokes  of  a  sledge ; 
but  Hardy  did  not  attempt  to  stand  up  against  him. 
For  the  first  few  minutes  it  was  more  of  a  chase  than 

[460] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

a  fight,  and  in  that  the  sheepman  was  at  his  worst, 
cumbered  by  his  wet  clothes  and  the  water  in  his  shoes. 
Time  and  again  he  rushed  in  upon  his  crouching  oppo- 
nent, who  always  seemed  in  the  act  of  delivering  a 
blow  and  yet  at  the  moment  only  sidestepped  and 
danced  away.  The  hard  wet  sand  was  ploughed  and 
trampled  with  their  tracks,  the  records  of  a  dozen  use- 
less plunges,  when  suddenly  instead  of  dodging  Hardy 
stepped  quickly  forward,  his  "lily-white  hand"  shot 
out,  and  Jasper  Swope's  head  went  back  with  a  jerk. 

"You  son-of-a-goat!"  he  yelled,  as  the  blood  ran 
down  his  face,  and  lowering  his  head  he  bored  in  upon 
Hardy  furiously.  Once  more  Hardy  sidestepped, 
but  the  moment  his  enemy  turned  he  flew  at  him  like  a 
tiger,  raining  blows  upon  his  bloody  face  in  lightning 
succession. 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  sheepman,  coughing  like  a 
wood-chopper  as  he  struck  back  through  the  storm, 
and  the  chance  blow  found  its  mark.  For  a  moment 
Hardy  staggered,  clutching  at  his  chest ;  but  as  Swope 
sprang  forward  to  finish  his  work  he  ducked  and 
slipped  aside,  stumbling  like  a  man  about  to  drop. 

A  shrill  yell  went  up  from  the  farther  shore  as 
Hardy  stood  swaying  in  his  tracks,  and  a  fierce  shout 
of  warning  from  the  bluff;  but  Jasper  Swope  was  im- 
placable. Brushing  the  blood  from  his  eyes  he 
stepped  deliberately  forward  and  aimed  a  blow  that 

[461] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

would  have  felled  an  ox,  straight  at  his  enemy's  head. 
It  missed ;  the  drooping  head  snapped  down  like  Judy 
before  Punch  and  rose  up  again,  truculently;  then 
before  the  sheepman  could  regain  his  balance  Hardy 
threw  his  whole  strength  into  a  fierce  uppercut  that 
laid  Swope  sprawling  on  his  back. 

A  howl  of  triumph  and  derision  rose  up  from  the 
rim  of  the  bluff  as  the  burly  sheepman  went  down,  but 
it  changed  to  a  sudden  shout  of  warning  as  he 
scrambled  back  to  his  feet  again.  There  was  some- 
thing indescribably  vengeful  about  him  as  he  whirled 
upon  his  enemy,  and  his  hand  went  inside  his  torn  shirt 
in  a  gesture  not  to  be  mistaken. 

"Look  out  there,  Rufe!"  yelled  Creede,  leaping  up 
from  behind  his  rock  pile.  "Run!  Jump  into  the 
river I"  But  instead  Hardy  grabbed  up  a  handful  of 
sand  and  ran  in  upon  his  adversary.  The  pistol  stuck 
for  a  moment  in  its  hidden  sling  and  as  Swope 
wrenched  it  loose  and  turned  to  shoot,  Hardy  made  as 
if  to  close  with  him  and  then  threw  the  sand  full  in 
his  face.  It  was  only  an  instant's  respite  but  as  the 
sheepman  blinked  and  struck  the  dirt  from  his  eyes  the 
little  cowman  wheeled  and  made  a  dash  for  the  river. 
"Look  out!"  screamed  Creede,  as  the  gun  flashed  out 
and  came  to  a  point,  and  like  a  bullfrog  Hardy  hurled 
himself  far  out  into  the  eddying  water.  Then  like  the 
sudden  voice  of  Nemesis,  protesting  against  such 

[462] 


Threw  the  sand  full  in  his  face 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

treachery,  a  rifle  shot  rang  out  from  the  towering* 
crags  that  overshadowed  the  river  and  Jasper  Swope 
fell  forward,  dead.  His  pistol  smashed  against  a  rock 
and  exploded,  but  the  man  he  had  set  himself  to  kill 
was  already  buried  beneath  the  turbid  waters.  So 
swiftly  did  it  all  happen  that  no  two  men  saw  the 
same  —  some  were  still  gazing  at  the  body  of  Jasper 
Swope ;  others  were  staring  up  at  the  high  cliff  whence 
the  shot  had  come;  but  Jeff  Creede  had  eyes  only  for 
the  river  and  when  he  saw  Hardy's  head  bob  up,  half- 
way to  the  whirlpool,  and  duck  again  to  escape  the 
bullets,  he  leapt  up  and  ran  for  his  horse.  Then  Bill 
Johnson's  rifle  rang  out  again  from  the  summit  of  his: 
high  cliff,  and  every  man  scrambled  for  cover. 

A  Mexican  herder  dropped  his  gun  suddenly  and 
slipped  down  behind  a  rock;  and  his  compadres,  not 
knowing  from  whence  the  hostile  fire  came,  pushed  out 
their  carbines  and  began  to  shoot  wildly;  the  deep 
canon  reverberated  to  the  rattle  of  thirty-thirtys  and 
the  steady  crack,  crack  of  the  rifle  above  threw  the 
sheep  camp  into  confusion.  There  was  a  shout  as 
Creede  dashed  recklessly  out  into  the  open  and  the 
sand  leapt  up  in  showers  behind  him,  but  Bat  Wings 
was  running  like  the  wind  and  the  bullets  went  wide 
of  their  mark. 

Swinging  beneath  the  mesquite  trees  and  scrambling 
madly  over  stones  and  bushes  he  hammered  up  the 

[463] 


HIDDEN     WATER 

slope  of  Lookout  Point  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of 
dirt,  but  as  Hardy  drifted  around  the  bend  and  floated 
toward  the  whirlpool  there  was  a  crash  of  brush  from 
down  the  river  and  Creede  came  battering  through  the 
trees  to  the  shore.  Taking  down  his  real  a  as  he  rode 
he  leapt  quickly  off  his  horse  and  ran  out  on  the  big 
flat  rock  from  which  they  had  often  fished  together. 
At  his  feet  the  turbid  current  rolled  ponderously 
against  the  solid  wall  of  rock  and,  turning  back  upon 
itself,  swung  round  in  an  ever-lessening  circle  until  it 
sucked  down  suddenly  into  a  spiral  vortex  that 
spewed  up  all  it  caught  in  the  boiling  channel  below. 
There  in  years  past  the  lambs  and  weaklings  from 
the  herds  above  had  drifted  to  their  death,  but  never 
before  had  the  maelstrom  claimed  a  man. 

Swimming  weakly  with  the  current  Hardy  made  a 
last  ineffectual  effort  to  gain  the  bank;  then  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  his  partner  he  resigned  himself  to  the 
drag  of  the  whirlpool,  staking  his  life  on  a  single  throw 
of  the  rope.  Once  the  plaited  rawhide  was  wetted 
it  would  twist  and  bind  in  the  honda  and  before  Creede 
could  beat  it  straight  and  coil  it  his  partner  would 
be  far  out  in  the  centre  of  the  vortex.  Planting  his 
feet  firmly  on  the  rock  the  big  cowboy  lashed  the  kinks 
out  of  his  reata  and  coiled  it  carefully;  then  as  the 
first  broad  swirl  seized  its  plaything  and  swung  him 
slowly  around  Creede  let  out  a  big  loop  and  began  to 

[464] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

swing  it  about  his  head,  his  teeth  showing  in  a  tense 
grin  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  mark.  At  each  turn 
his  wrist  flexed  and  his  back  swayed  with  a  willowy 
suppleness  but  except  for  that  he  was  like  a  herculean 
statue  planted  upon  the  point. 

The  maelstrom  heaved  and  rocked  as  it  swung  its 
victim  nearer  and  like  a  thing  with  life  seemed  sud- 
denly to  hurry  him  past;  then  as  Hardy  cried  out  and 
held  up  a  hand  for  help  the  rope  cut  through  the  air 
like  a  knife  and  the  loop  shot  far  out  across  the  boiling 
water.  It  was  a  long  throw,  fifty  feet  from  the  rock^ 
and  the  last  coil  had  left  his  tense  fingers  before  the 
noose  fell,  but  it  splashed  a  circle  clean  and  true  about 
the  uplifted  hand.  For  a  moment  the  cowboy  waited, 
watching;  then  as  the  heavy  rope  sank  behind  his 
partner's  shoulders  he  took  in  his  slack  with  a  jerk. 
The  noose  tightened  beneath  Hardy's  arms  and  held 
him  against  the  insistent  tug  of  the  river;  and  while 
the  whirlpool  roared  and  foamed  against  his  body 
Creede  hauled  him  forth  roughly,  until,  stooping 
down,  he  gathered  him  into  his  arms  like  a  child. 

"My  God,  boy,"  he  said,  "you  're  takin'  big  chances, 
for  a  family  man  —  but  say,  what  did  I  tell  you  about 
sheepmen?" 

The  Mexicans  were  still  firing  random  shots  along 
the  river  when  Creede  lifted  his  partner  up  on  Bat 
30  [465] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Wings  and  carried  him  back  to  Hidden  Water. 
Long  before  they  reached  the  house  they  could  see 
Lucy  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  Hardy  held  him- 
self painfully  erect  in  the  saddle,  with  Creede  steady- 
ing him  from  behind;  but  when  Bat  Wings  halted 
before  the  ramada  Jeff  broke  rudely  in  on  the  play 
acting  by  taking  the  little  man  in  his  arms  and  depos- 
iting him  on  a  bed. 

"Fell  into  the  river,"  he  said,  turning  with  a  reassur- 
ing smile  to  Lucy,  "but  he  ain't  hurt  none  —  only 
kinder  weak,  you  know.  I  reckon  a  little  hot  tea 
would  help  some,  bein'  as  we  're  out  of  whiskey,  and 
while  you  're  brewin'  it  I  '11  git  these  wet  clothes  off. 
Yes  'm,  we  're  havin'  a  little  trouble,  but  that 's  only 
them  locoed  Mexicans  shootin'  off  their  spare  ammuni- 
tion." He  dragged  up  a  cot  as  he  spoke  and  was  hur- 
riedly arranging  a  bed  when  Lucy  interposed. 

"Oh,  but  don't  leave  him  out  here!"  she  protested, 
"put  him  back  in  his  own  room,  where  I  can  take  care 
of  him." 

"All  right,"  said  Creede,  and  picking  him  up  from 
his  bare  cot  beneath  the  ramada  he  carried  Hardy  into 
the  little  room  where  he  had  lived  before  Lucy  Ware 
came.  "I  guess  your  troubles  are  over  for  a  while, 
pardner,"  he  remarked,  as  he  tucked  him  into  the  clean 
white  bed,  and  then  with  a  wise  look  at  Lucy  he 
slipped  discreetly  out  the  door. 

[466] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

As  she  entered  with  the  tea  Hardy  was  lying  very 
limp  and  white  against  the  pillow,  but  after  the  hot 
drink  he  opened  his  big  gray  eyes  and  looked  up  at  her 
sombrely. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  speaking  with  elaborate  ex- 
actness, "I  want  to  tell  you  something."  He  reached 
out  and  took  her  hand,  and  as  he  talked  he  clung  to  it 
appealingly.  "Lucy,"  he  began,  "I  didn't  forget 
about  you  when  I  went  down  there,  but  —  well,  when 
Jasper  Swope  came  out  and  challenged  us  my  hair  be- 
gan to  bristle  like  a  dog's  —  and  the  next  thing  I  knew 
I  was  fighting.  He  said  if  I  licked  him  he  'd  go 
round  —  but  you  can't  trust  these  sheepmen.  When 
he  saw  he  was  whipped  he  tried  to  shoot  me,  and  1 
had  to  jump  into  the  river.  Oh,  I  'm  all  right  now, 
but  —  listen,  Lucy!"  He  drew  her  down  to  him,  in- 
sistently. "Can't  you  forgive  me,  this  time?"  he  whis- 
pered, and  when  she  nodded  he  closed  his  heavy  eyes 
and  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  there  was  nothing 
to  show  for  his  fierce  fight  with  Swope  or  his  battle 
with  the  river  —  nothing  but  a  great  weariness  and  a 
wistful  look  in  his  eyes.  But  all  day  while  the  boys 
rode  back  and  forth  from  the  river  he  lay  in  bed,  look- 
ing dreamily  out  through  the  barred  window  or  follow- 
ing Lucy  with  furtive  glances  as  she  flitted  in  and 
out.  Whenever  she  came  near  he  smiled,  and  often 

[467] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

the  soft  light  crept  into  his  eyes,  but  when  by  chance 
he  touched  her  hand  or  she  brushed  back  his  hair  a 
great  quiet  settled  upon  him  and  he  turned  his  face 
away. 

It  was  Creede  who  first  took  notice  of  his  preoccu- 
pation and  after  a  series  of  unsatisfactory  visits  he 
beckoned  Lucy  outside  the  door  with  a  solemn  jerk  of 
the  head. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "that  boy  's  got  something  on  his 
mind  —  I  can  tell  by  them  big  eyes  of  his.  Any  idee 
what  it  is?" 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Lucy,  blushing  before  his 
searching  gaze,  "unless  it  's  the  sheep." 

"Nope,"  said  Creede,  "it  ain't  that.  I  tried  to  talk 
sheep  and  he  would  n't  listen  to  me.  This  here  looks 
kinder  bad,"  he  observed,  shaking  his  head  ominously. 
"I  don't  like  it  —  layin'  in  bed  all  day  and  thinkin' 
that  way.  W'y,  that  'd  make  me  sick!" 

He  edged  awkwardly  over  to  where  she  was  stand- 
ing and  lowered  his  voice  confidentially. 

"I  '11  tell  you,  Miss  Lucy,"  he  said,  "I  Ve  known 
Ruf e  a  long  time  now,  and  he  's  awful  close-mouthed. 
He 's  always  thinkin'  about  something  away  off 
yonder,  too  —  but  this  is  different.  Now  of  course  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  but  I  think  all  that  boy 
needs  is  a  little  babyin',  to  make  him  f  ergit  his  troubles. 
Yes  'm,  that  boy  's  lonely.  Bein'  sick  this  way  has 

[468] 


THE    LAST     CROSSING 

took  the  heart  out  of  'im  and  made  'im  sorry  for  him- 
self, like  a  kid  that  wants  his  mother.  And  so  — 
well,"  he  said,  turning  abruptly  away,  "that 's  all, 
jest  thought  I  'd  tell  you."  He  pulled  down  his  hat, 
swung  dexterously  up  on  Bat  Wings  and  galloped 
away  down  the  valley,  waving  his  hand  at  the  barred 
window  as  he  passed. 

Long  after  the  clatter  of  hoofs  had  ceased  Lucy 
stood  in  the  shade  of  the  ramada,  gazing  pensively  at 
the  fire-blasted  buttes  and  the  tender  blue  mountains 
beyond.  How  could  such  rugged  hillsides  produce 
men  who  were  always  gentle,  men  whose  first 
thought  was  always  of  those  who  loved  them  and 
never  of  fighting  and  blood?  It  was  a  land  of  hard- 
ships and  strife  and  it  left  its  mark  on  them  alL  The 
Ruf  us  that  she  had  known  before  had  seemed  different 
from  all  other  men,  and  she  had  loved  him  for  it, 
even  when  all  his  thought  was  for  Kitty;  but  now 
in  two  short  years  he  had  become  stern  and  headstrong 
in  his  ways ;  his  eyes  that  had  smiled  up  at  her  so  wist- 
fully when  he  had  first  come  back  from  the  river  were 
set  and  steady  again  like  a  soldier's,  and  he  lay  brood- 
ing upon  some  hidden  thing  that  his  lips  would  never 
speak.  Her  mutinous  heart  went  out  to  him  at  every 
breath,  now  that  he  lay  there  so  still;  at  a  word  she 
could  kneel  at  his  side  and  own  that  she  had  always 
loved  him;  but  his  mind  was  far  away  and  he  took 

[469] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

no  thought  of  her  weakness.  Pie  was  silent  —  and  she 
must  be  a  woman  to  the  end,  a  voiceless  suppliant, 
a  slave  that  waits,  unbidden,  a  chip  on  the  tide  that 
carries  it  to  some  safe  haven  or  hurries  it  out  to  sea. 

With  downcast  eyes  she  turned  back  into  the  house, 
going  about  her  work  with  the  quiet  of  a  lover  who 
listens  for  some  call,  and  as  she  passed  to  and  fro  she 
felt  his  gaze  upon  her.  At  last  she  looked  up  and 
when  she  met  his  glance  she  went  in  and  stood  beside 
his  bed. 

"What  is  it  you  want,  Rufus?"  she  asked,  and  his 
face  lit  up  suddenly  as  he  answered  with  his  eloquent 
eyes,  but  he  could  not  speak  the  word. 

"Who  am  I?"  he  murmured,  musingly,  "to  ask 
for  all  the  world?"  But  he  held  close  to  the  little 
hands  and  as  he  felt  their  yielding  his  breath  came 
hard  and  he  gazed  up  at  her  with  infinite  tenderness. 

"Dear  Lucy,"  he  said,  "you  do  not  know  me.     I 

am  a  coward  —  it  was  born  in  me  —  I  cannot  help  it. 

Not   with   men!"    he   cried,   his   eyes    lighting   up. 

"Ah,  no;  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  I  can  fight 

-but—" 

He  paused  and  his  vehemence  died  away  sud- 
denly. "Lucy,"  he  began  again,  still  clinging  to 
her  hands  for  courage,  "you  have  never  laughed  at 
me  —  you  have  always  been  gentle  and  patient  —  I 
will  tell  you  something.  You  know  how  I  ran  away 

[470] 


THE    LAST    CROSSING 

from  Kitty,  and  how  when  she  came  down  here  I 
avoided  her.  I  was  afraid,  Lucy,  and  yet  —  well, 
it  is  all  over  now."  He  sighed  and  turned  restlessly 
on  his  pillow.  "One  day  I  met  her  up  the  river  and 
she  —  she  called  me  a  coward.  Not  by  the  word  — 
but  I  knew.  That  was  the  day  before  the  sheep  came 
in  through  Hell's  Hip  Pocket,  and  even  Jeff  does  n't 
know  of  the  fights  I  had  that  night.  I  went  out  yes- 
terday and  fought  Jasper  Swope  with  my  bare  hands 
to  wipe  the  shame  away  —  but  it 's  no  use,  I  'm  a 
coward  yet."  He  groaned  and  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall  but  Lucy  only  sighed  and  brushed  back  his  hair. 
For  a  minute  he  lay  there,  tense  and  still;  then  as 
her  hand  soothed  him  he  turned  and  his  voice  be- 
came suddenly  soft  and  caressing,  as  she  had  always 
liked  it  best. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me  for  it,  Lucy,"  he  said,  "I  love 
you  —  but  I  'm  afraid."  He  caught  her  hands  again, 
gazing  up  wistfully  into  her  eyes,  and  when  she 
smiled  through  her  tears  he  drew  her  nearer. 

"Lucy,"  he  whispered,  "you  will  understand  me. 
I  have  never  kissed  any  one  since  my  mother  died  — 
could  —  could  you  kiss  me  first?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Rufus,"  she  answered,  and  as  their  lips 
met  he  held  her  gently  in  his  arms. 


[471] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   END   OF   IT  ALL 

rpHERE  is  a  mocking-bird  at  Hidden  Water  that 
sings  the  songs  of  all  the  birds  and  whistles  for 
the  dog.  His  nest  is  in  a  great  cluster  of  mistletoe 
in  the  mesquite  tree  behind  the  house  and  every  morn- 
ing he  polishes  his  long  curved  bill  against  the 
ramada  roof,  preens  out  his  glossy  feathers,  and  does 
honor  to  the  sun.  For  two  years,  off  and  on,  Hardy 
had  heard  him,  mimicking  orioles  and  larks  and  spar- 
rows and  whistling  shrilly  for  the  dog,  but  now  for 
the  first  time  his  heart  answered  to  the  wild  joy  of 
the  bird  lover.  The  world  had  taken  on  light  and 
color  over  night,  and  the  breeze,  sifting  in  through 
the  barred  window,  was  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of 
untrampled  flowers. 

April  had  come,  and  the  grass;  the  air  was  un- 
tainted; there  was  no  braying  by  the  river  —  the 
sheep  had  gone.  It  had  been  bought  at  the  price  of 
blood,  but  at  last  there  was  peace.  The  dreamy 
qudh3  quah  of  the  quail  was  no  longer  a  mockery  of 
love;  their  eggs  would  not  be  broken  in  the  nest  but 
the  mothers  would  lead  forth  their  little  ones;  even 

[472] 


THE    END     OF     IT    ALL 

the  ground-doves  and  the  poor-wills,  nesting  in  last 
year's  sheep  tracks,  would  escape  the  myriad  feet  - 
and  all  because  a  crazy  man,  hiding  among  the  cliffs, 
had  shot  down  Jasper  Swope.  Without  hate  or  pity 
Hardy  thought  of  that  great  hairy  fighting-man;  the 
God  that  let  him  live  would  judge  him  dead  —  and 
Bill  Johnson  too,  when  he  should  die.  The  sheep 
were  gone  and  Lucy  had  kissed  him  —  these  were  the 
great  facts  in  the  world. 

They  were  sitting  close  together  Beneath  the 
ramada,  looking  out  upon  the  sunlit  valley  and  talk- 
ing dreamily  of  the  old  days,  when  suddenly  Hardy 
edged  away  and  pointed  apologetically  to  the  western 
trail.  There  in  single  file  came  Judge  Ware  in  his 
linen  duster,  a  stranger  in  khaki,  and  a  woman,  riding 
astride. 

"There  comes  father!"  cried  Lucy,  springing  up 
eagerly  and  waving  her  hand. 

"And  Kitty,"  added  Hardy,  in  a  hushed  voice. 
Not  since  they  had  come  had  he  spoken  of  her,  and 
Lucy  had  respected  his  silence.  Except  for  the 
vague  "Perhaps"  with  which  she  had  answered  Bill 
Lightfoot's  persistent  inquiries  he  had  had  no  hint 
that  Kitty  might  come,  and  yet  a  vague  uneasiness 
had  held  his  eyes  to  the  trail. 

"Tell  me,  Lucy,"  he  said,  drawing  her  back  to  his 
side  as  the  party  dipped  out  of  sight  in  the  inter- 

[473] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

minable  thicket  of  mesquites,  "why  have  you  never 
spoken  of  Kitty?  Has  anything  dreadful  happened? 
Please  tell  me  quick,  before  she  comes.  I  —  I  won't 
know  what  to  say."  He  twisted  about  and  fixed  an 
eye  on  the  doorway,  but  Lucy  held  out  a  restraining 
hand. 

"It  has  been  a  great  secret,"  she  said,  "and  you 
must  promise  not  to  tell,  but  Kitty  has  been  writing 
a  play." 

"A  play!"  exclaimed  Hardy,  astounded,  "why  — 
what  in  the  world  is  it  about?" 

"About  Arizona,  of  course,"  cried  Lucy.  "Don't 
you  remember  how  eager  she  was  to  hear  you  men 
talk?  And  she  collected  all  those  spurs  and  quirts 
for  stage  properties!  Why,  she  wrote  books  and 
books  full  of  notes  and  cowboy  words  while  she  was 
down  here  and  she  's  been  buried  in  manuscript  for 
months.  When  she  heard  that  you  were  having  the 
round-up  early  this  year  she  was  perfectly  frantic  to 
come,  but  they  were  right  in  the  midst  of  writing  it 
and  she  just  could  n't  get  away." 

"They?"  repeated  Hardy,  mystified.  "Why 
who—" 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Lucy,  biting  her  lip.  Then 
in  a  lower  voice  she  added:  "She  has  been  collabo- 
rating with  Tupper  Browne." 

"Tupper    Browne!     Why,    what    does    he    know 

[474] 


THE    END    OF    IT    ALL 

about  Arizona?"  cried  Hardy  indignantly,  and  then, 
as  Lucy  looked  away,  he  stopped  short. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  and  then  there  was  a  long  silence. 
"Well,  Tupper  's  a  good  fellow,"  he  remarked  philo- 
sophically. "But  Lucy,"  he  said,  starting  up  nerv- 
ously as  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  came  up  from 
the  creek  bed,  "you  '11  —  you  '11  do  all  the  talking, 
won't  you?" 

"Talking!"  repeated  Lucy,  pausing  in  her  flight. 
"Why,  yes,"  she  called  back,  laughing.  "Is  n't  that 
always  the  woman's  part?"  And  then  she  fell  upon 
Kitty's  neck  and  kissed  her.  Hardy  came  forward 
with  less  assurance,  but  his  embarrassment  was  re- 
duced to  a  minimum  by  Judge  Ware  who,  as  soon  as 
the  first  greetings  were  over,  brought  forward  the 
mild-mannered  gentleman  in  khaki  and  introduced 
him. 

"Mr.  Shafer,"  he  said,  "this  is  my  superintendent, 
Mr.  Hardy.  Mr.  Shafer  represents  the  United 
States  Forestry  Service,"  he  added  significantly. 

"Ah,  then  you  must  bring  us  good  news!"  cried 
Hardy,  holding  out  his  hand  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  official  modestly,  but  his 
speech  ended  with  that  word. 

"I  am  convinced,"  began  Judge  Ware,  suddenly 
quelling  all  conversation  by  the  earnestness  of  his  de- 
meanor. "I  am  convinced  that  in  setting  aside  the 

[475] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

Salagua  watershed  as  a  National  Forest  Reserve,  our 
President  has  added  to  the  record  of  his  good  deeds 
an  act  of  such  consummate  statesmanship  that  it  will 
lie  remembered  long  after  his  detractors  are  forgotten. 
But  for  him,  millions  of  acres  of  public  land  now  set 
aside  as  reserves  would  still  be  open  to  the  devasta- 
tion of  unrestricted  grazing,  or  have  passed  irrevo- 
cably into  the  power  of  this  infamous  land  ring  which 
has  been  fighting  on  the  floor  of  Congress  to  deprive 
the  American  people  of  their  rights.  But  after  both 
houses  had  passed  a  bill  depriving  the  executive  of 
his  power  to  proclaim  Forest  Reserves  —  holding 
back  the  appropriations  for  the  Forestry  Service  as 
a  threat  —  he  baffled  them  by  a  feigned  acquiescence. 
In  exchange  for  the  appropriations,  he  agreed  to  sign 
the  act  —  and  then,  after  securing  the  appropriations, 
he  availed  himself  of  the  power  still  vested  in  him 
to  set  aside  this  reserve  and  many  other  reserves  for 
our  children  and  our  children's  children  —  and  then, 
gentlemen,  true  to  his  word,  he  signed  the  bill!" 

Judge  Ware  shook  hands  warmly  with  Mr.  Shafer 
at  the  end  of  this  speech  and  wished  him  all  success  in 
protecting  the  people's  domain.  It  was  a  great  day 
for  the  judge,  and  as  soon  as  Creede  and  the  other 
cowmen  came  in  with  the  day's  gather  of  cattle  he 
hastened  out  to  tell  them  the  news. 

[476] 


THE    END    OF     IT    ALL 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  holding  up  his 
hand  to  stop  the  joyous  yelling,  "I  wish  to  thank  you 
one  and  all  for  your  confidence  in  me  and  in  the  good 
faith  of  our  Government.  It  called  for  a  high  order 
of  manhood,  I  am  sure ;  but  in  not  offering  any  armed 
resistance  to  the  incoming  of  the  sheep  your  loyalty 
has  withstood  its  supreme  test." 

"How's  that?"  inquired  Creede,  scratching  his 
head  doubtfully.  Then,  divining  the  abysmal  igno- 
rance from  which  the  judge  was  speaking,  he  an- 
swered, with  an  honest  twinkle  in  his  eye:  "Oh, 
that 's  all  right,  Judge.  We  always  try  to  do  what 's 
right  —  and  we  're  strong  for  the  law,  when  they 
is  any." 

"I  'm  afraid  there  has  n't  been  much  law  up  here 
in  the  past,  has  there?"  inquired  Mr.  Shafer  tactfully. 

"Well,  not  so  's  you  'd  notice  it,"  replied  the  big 
cowboy  enigmatically.  "But  say,  Judge,"  he  con- 
tinued, making  a  point  at  the  old  gentleman's  linen 
duster,  "excuse  me,  but  that  yaller  letter  stickiri'  out 
of  your  pocket  loots  kinder  familiar.  It 's  for  me, 
ain't  it?  Um,  thanks;  this  detective  outfit  back  in 
St.  Louie  is  tryin'  to  make  me  out  a  millionaire,  or 
somethin'  like  that,  and  I  'm  naturally  interested." 
He  tore  the  letter  open,  extracted  a  second  epistle 
from  its  depths  and  read  it  over  gravely.  "Well, 

[477] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

boys/'  be  observed,  grinning  cheerfully  as  he  tucked 
it  away  in  his  snaps,  "my  luck  always  did  run  in 
bunches  —  I'm  rich!" 

He  strode  briskly  over  to  the  corral,  caught  up  a 
fresh  horse  and,  riding  back  to  the  camp,  began  to  go 
through  his  war  bag  hurriedly.  He  was  in  the  midst 
of  a  feverish  packing,  throwing  away  socks  and  grab- 
bing up  shirts,  when  a  gay  laugh  from  the  house 
attracted  his  attention.  He  listened  for  a  moment 
abstractedly;  then  he  flew  at  his  work  once  more, 
dumping  everything  he  had  out  on  his  bed  and  stuffing 
what  he  needed  back  into  his  war  bag;  but  when  there 
came  a  second  peal  of  laughter,  he  stopped  and 
craned  his  neck. 

"Well  —  I'll  —  be  —  dam'd!"  he  muttered,  as  he 
recognized  the  voice,  and  then  he  flew  at  his  work 
again,  manhandling  everything  in  sight.  He  was 
just  roping  his  enormous  bed,  preparatory  to  deposit- 
ing it  in  the  bunk-house,  when  Kitty  Bonnair  stepped 
out  of  the  house  and  came  toward  him,  walking  like  a 
boy  in  her  dainty  riding  suit.  There  was  a  great  noise 
from  the  branding  pen  and  as  she  approached  he 
seemed  very  intent  upon  his  work,  wrestling  with  his 
bundle  as  if  he  were  hog-tying  a  bull  and  using  lan- 
guage none  too  choice  the  while,  but  Kitty  waited 
patiently  until  he  looked  up. 

"Why,  howdy  do,  Mr.  Creede,"  she  cried,  smiling 

[478] 


THE     END     OF     IT     ALL 

radiantly.     "I  got  a  new  idea  for  my  play  just  from 
seeing  you  do  that  work." 

The  cowboy  regarded  her  sombrely,  took  a  nip  or 
two  with  his  rope's  end,  jerked  the  cords  tight,  and 
sat  down  deliberately  on  the  bundle. 

"That 's  good,"  he  said,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his 
eyes.  "How's  tricks?"  There  was  a  shadow  of 
irony  in  his  voice  but  Kitty  passed  it  by. 

"Fine  and  dandy,"  she  answered.  "How  are  you 
coming?" 

"Oh,  pretty  good,"  he  conceded,  rising  up  and  sur- 
veying the  battlefield,  "and  I  reckon  I  ain't  forgot 
nothin',"  he  added  meaningly.  He  kicked  his  blanket 
roll,  tied  his  war  bag  behind  the  saddle,  and  hitched 
up  his  overalls  regally.  "Sorry  I  ain't  goin'  to  see 
more  of  you,"  he  observed,  slipping  his  six-shooter 
into  his  shaps,  "but  — " 

"What,  you  aren't  going?"  cried  Kitty,  aghast. 
"Why,  I  came  all  the  way  down  here  to  see  you  — 
I  'm  writing  a  play,  and  you  're  the  hero !" 

"Ye-es!"  jeered  Creede,  laughing  crudely.  "I'm 
Mary's  little  lamb  that  got  snatched  baldheaded  to 
make  the  baby  laugh." 

"You  're  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Kitty 
stoutly.  "You  're  the  hero  in  my  play  that 's  going 
to  be  acted  some  day  on  the  stage.  You  kill  a  Mexi- 
can, and  win  a  beautiful  girl  in  the  last  act !" 

[479] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

"That 's  good,"  commented  Creede,  smiling  grimly, 
"but  say,  that  Mex.  will  keep,  won't  he  —  because 
I  'm  due  back  in  St.  Louie." 

"Oh!"  cried  Kitty,  clasping  her  hands  in  despair. 
"St.  Louis!  And  won't  I  ever  see  you  any  more?" 

"Well,  you  might,"  conceded  the  cowboy  magnani- 
mously, "if  you  wait  around  long  enough." 

"But  I  cant  wait!  I  Ve  got  to  finish  my  last  act, 
and  I  came  clear  down  here,  just  to  hear  you  talk. 
You  can't  imagine  how  interesting  you  are,  after  liv- 
ing up  there  in  the  city,"  she  added  naively. 

"No,"  grumbled  Creede,  picking  up  his  bridle  lash, 
"but  say,  I  Ve  got  to  be  goin' !"  He  hooked  a  boot 
negligently  into  the  stirrup  and  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder.  "Anything  else  I  can  do  for  you?"  he  in- 
quired politely. 

"Oh,  you  dear  Jeff!"  cried  Kitty  ecstatically,  "yes! 
Do  come  back  here  and  let  me  tell  you!"  He  kicked 
his  foot  reluctantly  out  of  the  stirrup  and  stalked 
back,  huge  and  commanding  as  ever,  but  with  a 
puzzled  look  in  his  eye. 

"Bend  your  head  down,  so  I  can  whisper  it,"  she 
coaxed,  and  brute-like  he  bowed  at  her  bidding.  She 
whispered  a  moment  eagerly,  added  a  word,  and 
pushed  his  head  away.  For  a  minute  he  stood  there, 
thinking  ponderously;  then  very  deliberately  he 

[480] 


THE     END     OF     IT    ALL 

pulled  his  six-shooter  out  of  his  shaps  and  handed  it 
over  to  her. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "but  say" — he  beckoned  her 
with  an  inexorable  jerk  of  the  head — "what  do  I  git, 
now?"  He  looked  down  upon  her  as  he  had  on  the 
morning  they  had  parted,  out  behind  the  corral,  and 
the  hot  blood  leaped  into  Kitty  Bonnair's  cheeks  at 
the  memory  of  that  kiss.  For  a  moment  she  hesi- 
tated, twisting  her  trim  boot  into  the  ground,  then 
she  drew  the  coveted  pistol  from  her  belt  and  handed 
it  back. 

"Well,  since  you  insist,"  he  said,  and  very  sternly 
he  thrust  the  redeemed  weapon  back  into  his  shaps. 
A  change  came  over  him  as  he  regarded  her;  there 
was  an  austere  tightening  of  his  lips  and  his  eyes 
glowed  with  a  light  that  Kitty  had  never  seen  before. 

"That  was  a  rough  deal  you  gave  me,  girl,"  he 
said,  his  voice  vibrant  with  anger,  "and  I  ain't  forgot* 
ten  it.  You  dropped  your  rope  over  my  horns  and 
gave  me  a  little  run  and  then  you  took  your  turns  and 
busted  me  like  a  wild  steer!  And  then  maybe  you 
laughed  a  little,"  he  suggested,  with  a  searching 
glance.  "No?  Well,  it's  all  right,  as  far  as  I'm 
concerned  —  my  hide  's  whole,  and  I  'm  rope-wise  — 
but  I  '11  tell  you,  Miss  Kitty,  if  you  'd  jest  keep  this 
gun  of  mine  and  shoot  some  feller  once  in  a  while 

31  [481] 


HIDDEN    WATER 

we  'd  all  enjoy  it  more."  He  paused,  and  as  Kitty 
stood  downcast  before  this  sudden  censure  he  smiled 
to  himself,  and  a  twinkle  of  mischief  crept  into  his 
masterful  eyes. 

"But  don't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that,  girl,"  he 
said,  throwing  out  his  hands  largely.  "You  don't 
lose  no  friends  by  tryiri'  to  educate  us  a  little  —  ump- 
umm!  Of  course  I  'm  kinder  sore  over  that  letter, 
but  you  look  good  to  me  yet,  Kitty!" 

"Why —  Mr.  Creede!"  faltered  Kitty,  looking  up. 

"That 's  right,"  asserted  Creede,  lowering  his  voice 
confidentially,  "they  was  something  about  you  that 
caught  my  eye  the  first  time  I  saw  you."  He  laughed; 
showing  all  his  white  teeth,  and  at  the  same  time  his 
eyes  were  very  grave. 

"Come  over  here,"  he  said,  "and  I  '11  tell  you  what 
it  was.  No  —  I  won't  kiss  you  —  come  on  up  close." 
Wondering  at  her  own  acquiescence,  Kitty  Bonnair 
obeyed,  and  with  a  mysterious  smile  he  stooped  down 
until  his  lips  were  close  to  her  ear. 

"You  remind  me  of  my  girl,"  he  whispered,  "back 
in  St.  Louie !"  And  then  with  a  great  laugh  he  broke 
away  and  leapt  triumphantly  into  the  saddle. 

"Whoop-eee!"  he  yelled.  "Watch  me  fly!"  "  And 
spreading  his  arms  like  a  bird  he  thundered  away 
down  the  western  trail. 

There  was  a  strange  stillness  about  the  old  ranch 

[482] 


THE     END     OF     IT     ALL 

house  when  Kitty  came  back  to  it  and  she  wondered 
vaguely  where  Lucy  and  Rufus  were,  but  as  she 
stepped  inside  the  dirt  ramada  the  quiet  seemed  to  lay 
its  spell  upon  her  and  she  halted  by  the  doorway, 
waiting  for  a  last  glimpse  of  Jeff  as  he  went  up  over 
the  western  rim.  The  bawling  of  cattle  and  the  shrill 
yells  of  the  cowboys  no  longer  tempted  her  to  the 
parada  ground  —  she  was  lonely,  and  there  was  no 
one  who  cared  for  her.  Yet,  somewhere  within,  she 
could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices,  and  at  last  when  she 
could  endure  it  no  longer  she  turned  and  entered 
quickly.  The  big  living-room  where  they  had  so 
often  sat  together  was  vacant  now,  but  Hardy's  door 
was  open,  and  as  she  looked  in  she  saw  them  standing 
together  —  Lucy  with  downcast  eyes,  and  Rufus, 
holding  both  her  hands.  It  was  all  very  innocent  and 
lover-like,  but  when  their  lips  met  she  turned  and  fled 
to  her  room. 

Half  an  hour  later  Kitty  emerged  from  her  hiding, 
robed  like  a  woman;  there  was  a  new  grace  about  her 
as  she  stood  before  them,  a  new  dignity,  and  she  wore 
fresh  flowers  in  her  hair,  forget-me-nots,  picked  from 
among  the  rocks  as  she  rode  toward  Hidden  Water. 

"Bless  you,  my  children,"  she  said,  smiling  and  hold- 
ing out  her  hands,  "I  shall  die  an  old  maid.'*  And 
then  she  kissed  them  both. 


[483] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


AUG 


8    «« 


iKCULAh 


Ut  31  1968  4.6 


20  1978 


'    fW-  DEPT 


OCT    a  1980 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 


YB  6035m-*  i 


R57597 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


GIMBEL  BROMK5 


